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Wednesday, June 5, 2013

The Toilet Has Issue and So Do I

People,

Things are getting a little disconcerting around here.  As in, things are falling apart. My things.  When I turned 40, my husband who is a whole experienced 6 months older than me said, "Just get ready.  It's a downward spiral now."

Which is a bit of a downer when all you really needed to hear was "Happy Birthday, Wife.  Enjoy the many expensive gifts I have recently purchased for you."

For the first four years of the forties, I haven't felt the downward spiral so much.  But here in year almost 4 and a 1/2 of my forties, everyday, at least once a day, I am finding myself yelling out to the universe in my best Tami Taylor voice:

"OH, COME ON NOW, Y'ALL!"

First of all, things hurt.  Lots of things.
 
I've been running since Drew was about 6 months old which means I started at the she's no spring chicken age of thirty-six.  And besides one small knee incident which was quickly remedied, I've had no issues.  Running is like therapy for me.  I live in a little bit of fear for my people of the day I have to stop running because it could turn into Superfreak Central around here.  In the past, on days when the run seemed difficult, it wouldn't be a pain problem, but more of an endurance problem.  This would be otherwise known as "I cannot make it one more mile, not one more block, not one more step or I will stop breathing right here in the middle of suburbia."  In reality, that is just me being a big, fat whiner and I need to do some mental cowboying up.  This is how I do that.

I say to myself, "What if someone told you that if you just finished that one more mile . . .

there would be a cure for cancer?

divorced parents would stop harming their children in their effort to be sure to continue their hatred toward their ex-spouse?

children wouldn't go to bed hungry?

little girls would stop looking up to Nikki Minaj?"

This is a strategy that has gotten me to the next mile, block or step without fail.  But it's getting harder because the endurance isn't the problem anymore.  It's just that my feet, my hip, my shin, my left shoulder, my elbow and my thumb hurt now. 

Yes, my thumb.  You can't imagine the pain in my thumb lately.  It's possible I have a thumb tumor.

I would be ever so grateful if you would hit your knees in prayer now for the complete healing of my thumb. 

Since my husband looked at me like I was Pathetic Patty when I told him about my thumb, I decided to try out a girlfriend for some sympathy.  When I went to breakfast with my dear Mrs. Fitz the other day, who happens to own a few Massage Envy establishments, I told her I was on my way to see Zack, the massage therapist, and asked if she thought that in addition to fixing the rest of me, he might possibly bring relief to the thumb issue.  She gave me exactly the amount of sympathy my thumb deserved, even though she probably thought I was Pathetic Patty.  She never let on.  Women are so very adept at indulging the crazy in their friends.  Blessings. 

(Turns out that although my thumb woes are not completely over, Zack is all kinds of heroic. While other children dress up like firemen, soldiers and police officers for Halloween, I am going to demand that Drew dress up as Massage Envy massage therapist this year.  Because I'm certain there would be world peace if people just got massages once a week.) 

Secondly, in addition to things feeling weird, things are looking very weird. 

Not only things on me, but the things I am looking at because I just can't see at all.  I've got reading glasses stashed all over the house.  My children have to read directions for me on boxes of macaroni and cheese and the like.  If I send a text, there is just no telling what it might actually say.  Siri is becoming increasingly frustrated trying to auto correct me.

Also there are hairs growing.  Like on my chin.  Next to the glasses, I've got tweezers stashed all over the house. I keep trying to wipe the mascara off from under my eyes, even when I'm not wearing mascara.  I often think there is some sort of black mark on my face near my mouth, but when I go to wipe it off I find it is the "parenthesis wrinkle".  How cute that it has a name.  Also, I'm pretty sure we could play connect the dots with the age spots on my legs. 

Do you see what I'm saying?  DOWNWARD SPIRAL.  Which is why when I saw this book at the library, I snatched it up right away.



Turns out that most of these things are normal which honestly, does not make me happy because then I guess I can't expect anyone to actually fix them.  (Unfortunately, there is a surprising lack of information on thumb tumors.)  I took my new handbook with me the other day when I went to my little hole-in-the-wall nail salon.  There's a fancier one in my 'hood, but I adore my Vietnamese nail gal even though she scares me a little because she is slightly mean to me sometimes.  Here is an account of every a recent conversation we had:

She, with slightly disgusted expression:  "Jenn.  Why you wait so long? "

Me:  "I don't know.  All the kids and stuff.  It's crazy busy."

She: "You eyebrow wax today, too."

Me:  "I don't think so.  I think just a pedicure today.  I don't think I have time."

She:  "Not question, Jenn.  You eyebrow wax and lip.  Look.  So long.  You need wax."

See?  Kinda mean.  But her heart is in the right place.  And clearly her eyes are in the right place because she does not miss a single stray hair.  EVER.  And it hurts like the dickens.  (I am even talking like my grandmother now.)

So, before I went back to the waxing room, I walked into the bathroom where there is a big sign telling you to please not put anything in the toilet - no hygiene products, no paper towels, no tissue.  In big block letters it says:

THE TOILET HAS ISSUE

I sighed deeply and since I'm embracing my transformation into my grandmom, I looked at that  poor, pathetic toilet and said,

"Sho 'nuff, Toilet, Sho 'nuff."


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