The Scary Hag in the Kitchen

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This morning, after the cleaning massacre in three part harmony that occurred here yesterday, I laid around in my jammies and made a doctor’s appointment or two.  Or six.  

 

All my life, except for one small event, I’ve been super healthy.  I eat right, I exercise, I take a giant handful of vitamins everyday, twice a day.  I drink only water and, just a tad of alcohol.  No milk, no sodas, I never have. I juice kale, for crying out loud.  I have a LOT of energy.  Lots of it.  I know my family wishes I had a bit less. 

 

I’ve also been someone who scoffs at those with allergies, those with nasty, rashy skin, those complaining of aches and pains.  I am now shouting to the universe “I’M SORRY!!!!”.  I take it back.  All of it.  I’m sorry I made a mean high school girl’s face at people covered in pink calamine lotion.  I’m sorry I laughed at those with poison ivy woes, those with inhalers.  I really and truly apologize.  Please, karma, don’t let it be wine to which I’m allergic.  I promise to send in my St. Jude’s donation.  I promise not to swear at slow drivers (when they can actually read my lips and hand signals.  I feel that’s a good compromise.)

 

This summer, coming home from the lake, I developed a weird rash that covered me in pink camouflage by evening.  I went to a doc in the box, had a shot that hurt WAY more than it should, plus the added injustice of showing my spot riddled tee-hiney to a doctor half my age.  All was fine.  Then, months later, it happened again, out of the blue.  Again, I did the same thing but picked an older, less attractive doctor.  This Christmas, it came back with a vengeance.  This time, on my FACE.  My left eye swelled so that I resembled Marty Feldman.  I produced a bright red flush around my mouth that looked like I had forgotten to wash off Halloween makeup.  

 

So now, it’s returning.  This morning, I called an allergist.  I also called my breast care specialist, my gynecologist, my hormone doctor, my dermatologist because all this frowning has caused me to be able to form an expression and that, at least, I know can be remedied for four months with a shot!  I need to see the eye doctor, because I never have and I find that the world has taken on a fuzzy look but I found a really cute paisley pair of reading glasses at the dollar store and I’m just going to stick with that.  I’m scared of what I’ll see if I really can see.

 

Most of all, I called my hair dresser, who really can make a difference. 

 

The Goose was dilly-dallying around in the kitchen while I was making these appointments, waiting for his magic work pill to kick in, and I realized he was giving me serious and concerned glances.  Not the glances that say “hey, you’re looking kinda good here in this gloomy kitchen light” or “gee, I have never loved you more”.  It was more of the kind of glance Dorothy gave the Wizard when she pulled away the curtain.  

Girls, I realize now that I negligently made a classic mistake this morning.  Never, never, never let them see what keeps us propped up and looking like we’re 25.  Okay, 35.  Well, looking a little less like Mrs. Doubtfire.  I might as well been sitting there in a girdle and curlers with a cigarette hanging from my lips.  

 

I have no answers for how to remedy this.  I am scared of this old age thing. I was sure it would never find me.  I thought I was exempt since I still think I’m 16 inside. I’m going to work on it today, though. I will be braving the cold day with my top down (my car, not my shirt, dear God no), I am going to listen to rap. I might have to reach back into the knowledge of “What Would Doris Day Say?” and buy an actual negligée, I might have to wear gold lame, a push up bra and heels.  I know that I will not be bending over, with a giant swollen eye, in flannel jammies, picking up the poo Matilda left under the piano when the Goose comes back in tonight, though.  That probably wasn’t me at my best.  

 

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