Monday, January 21, 2013

I Asked For a Breast Lift

I am a slug at blogging.  Worse, I am the slime on the underbelly of a slug at blogging.  That sticky trail that you step in while going barefoot on a summer evening that adheres to your foot like gorilla glue and has to be scraped off with an old knife…. that would be me.  Gag.  Bad.   And yet I still find myself writing posts in my head.  I just can’t seem to get them into blog format.   
The song by the Rolling Stones…”You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes, you get what you need” is playing loudly in my head today.   What I want is a breast lift and liposuction on my thighs, what I’m getting is a hysterectomy.   I figure, if I’m going to have major surgery I should be able to see amazing visible results, but my SOB/GYN feels otherwise.   And so next week I will have my hateful uterus removed.  Not my ovaries mind you.  Only my uterus.  Because why would I want the bitchy part of my reproductive system removed?  No! I’ll just save those a couple more years and get all the good I can out those wildly fluctuating hormones; wreak as much havoc as I can with those babies while they’re still producing.  Besides they are probably what are keeping my breasts from touching my knees.  I thought you should know this, just in case you’re wondering what has been happening in my little world. 

My family (specifically my mother) tells me I share too much on social media.  Actually, I share very little.   But if I can make a humorous story from my everyday happenings and share it with others who might be experiencing similar circumstances, I think why not.  The mundane details are what constitute life and if you only share the amazing, you’re simply not being real.  I love real.
My impending surgery has sparked a streak of cleanliness in me that I haven’t experienced since my first pregnancy.   It’s like the nesting syndrome on steroids.   I have cleaned, straightened, and organized every corner of my house.   By the end of this week my refrigerator will be stocked and in my freezer you will find meals frozen and ready to bake.  All my towels are folded the same, beverage glasses aligned and my plastic ware sorted and stacked.   I have eliminated excess and even plan to get my hair cropped shorter.   My pantry is alphabetically arranged and an Excel spreadsheet exists with the household inventory.    If I die, I want the nosy people who come to visit my family impressed.    I’m not talking about friends who know my foibles.   They’ll laugh with me even in death.   I’m talking about the ones to whom I’m a mystery and nothing is never exactly as it appears.    I want the last glimpse of my world viewed like a quirky BBC movie.    That’s just who I am.  Or was, as the case may be.   But chances are above average that I’ll survive and in that case, I will have made my life easier for my family whilst I am bed fast.   Isn’t that what women/mother’s do? 
I’ve been somewhat reclusive for the past two months.  December is a difficult month for me.  I battle depression anyway, but I physically felt terrible too.  I wasn’t good company so I took the whole month off work.  January ushered in a raging flu season and I’ve purposefully stayed away from crowds trying to keep myself well so my surgery could stay on schedule.  I have worked in January, but I am questioning the general public’s intelligence regarding illness.   They get sick, stay home from work/school with a temperature of 104, go to the doctor, are diagnosed with bronchitis, pneumonia, strep throat and the stomach bug, then stop by the library on their way home to get movies, check Facebook and play Farmville all the while coughing, sneezing and vomiting.   Hand sanitizer and Lysol are my best friends.  It’s a mystery to me.  Stay home people!  Just stay home!
And so that is where I am on this 21st day of January, 2013, Martin Luther King Junior Day and Inauguration Day of which I’ve watched none because I’ve been too busy shopping at Hobby Lobby, eating at Chick-fil-A and cleaning my gun.  Just kidding people, just kidding.  Maybe.
Thanks for reading, Rosie.