Time for an Upgrade
My 31st birthday came and went earlier this month. I think I handled it very well. There was none of last year’s “THIRTY?! I’M going to be THIRTY? No frigging way. There will be no cake, no candles, in fact, no celebration of any kind. I am NOT having my birthday. EVER AGAIN.”
It didn’t help that my hair started going seriously grey. It’s genetic. Everyone in my family started going grey at 16 and I always thought the whole ‘salt & pepper’ look was pretty cool. Until it ended up ON MY HEAD.
Hi, I’m Jules, and I’m a hypocrite. I pay $100 for a cut and color every 12 weeks, and I can’t stop. I’ve never looked this good. Or had as many compliments.And I’m seriously hooked on that, baby.
When I first read Erin’s posts about what a compliment/freak magnet her red hair is, I admit, it sounded a little…out there. But I can tell you right now – it’s completely true. Complete strangers do come up to tell me how beautiful my hair is. And I’m just faking it. It’s awesome!
But back to the story. My birthday was fairly pleasant this year. We went to dinner on Saturday, brunch on Sunday, and I bought some new clothes. The only thing we didn’t do that I could have wanted, was to pop a bottle and get drunk. My husband’s mother was in town.
Family and friends sent lots of birthday cards and wishes – some even sent them twice. But It seems that somewhere amidst all the love and heartfelt hugs, I missed the second notice on my warrantee expiration.
“Step on the scale, please”
Man, I hate this. All I want is to get a stupid blood test so I can get a refill my thyroid medication. But I can’t just go get the blood test. Nooooo. I gotta get weighed. I gotta get my blood pressure. I gotta sit with the doc and chat about how I drink 3 cups of coffee a day to stay awake and can remember that “It’s in Johnson’s underwear” is a quote from the Breakfast Club, but have no recollection that my husband ever mentioned we’d be camping with his parents this weekend. For example.
“Do you want me to take off my shoes?”
“Nope, just climb on up.”
“Quick, what can I drop? Lose the purse. Am I wearing a headband? K, step on the scale.”
Chink. chink. chink. 127.5.
DAMNIT!
I’ve been eating fruit bars for breakfast and oatmeal for lunch for months and TODAY I’m 127.5?!!! C’mon. Friday I was 124. Can’t you put down Friday? Wait. My sneakers are 3 pounds, at least.
To those of you out there going, “127.5?! I should BE so lucky. This chick can’t EVEN talk about feeling overweight.” – I’ve heard it and I’m not saying I want to be 95 pounds. Or that I’m fat. However, 127.5 seems a little extreme to me because up until I devised the brilliant plan to gain a ‘little’ weight in the hopes of getting some actual boobage, I spent the majority of my free time in Ballet class and never broke 115 until the age of 27. To top it off, that damn plan didn’t work. AT. ALL.
“Hey, Jules. How we doing today?”
“Hey Doc. I’m good. Just in to get my blood drawn.”
“Hmm. Ok, ok. We’ll get that done. Everything else ok?”
“Well, my hand did go completely numb last week. I did Yoga the night before – it’s prob’ly just a pinched nerve.”
“Put out your hand, palm up. Let me tap your fingertips.
Tap. tap. tap.
“Do your fingers hurt?”
“No. But they’re really buzzy.”
“K. Put the backs of your hands together, fingers pointing down. Hold your elbows at 90 degrees. Does your hand hurt?”
“Can’t tell. It’s still buzzing from the tapping.”
“You’ve got Carpal Tunnel.”
DAMNIT!
“We’ll fit you for a brace and put you on anti-inflammatories. You’ll have to wear the brace at night and reduce as much computer work as possible.”
Uh, what?
I swear to god, his voice actually changes and I’m having a full blown flashback to my last dentist appointment:
“Your right joint seems to be wearing the lower jaw bone away. You’ll need to come in for more x-rays and we’ll to fit you for a permanent brace.”
I’m sorry, but what the hell is this? Some conspiracy to turn me into Frankenstein’s Bride? Have I not mentioned the hair dye? The fruitbars? The HUSBAND?
Oh sure, I really don’t want to have my jaw hanging off the left side of my face when I’m 50. But I really do like my husband WANTING to kiss me, instead of HAVING to kiss me. At this rate, he’s going to roll over at 2am on my 35th birthday and find himself fighting for the sheets with someone resembling the bald Hellraiser chick. Gh-huh.
I leave the doctor’s office with my right arm tied up in a black, five-strap wraparound wrist brace. It’s a beautiful, sunny day and as I drive by the Wendy’s that sits down the street, I glare jealously at the cars lined up at the drive through.
All the way home I think about how much better I feel, not gorging myself on a big, fat, cheesy meal of beef and veggies and mmmmmm…mayonaise. There’s an apple waiting for me at home, and if I’m really hungry, a bowl of chicken soup. Yeah, that’ll feel way better.
And I can weigh myself again. Their scale looked like it had been there when they first opened. In 1945. Mine’s digital. It’s gotta be way more accurate than theirs. Plus, I can take off my sneakers.
Step. step.
The digital zero blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.
127
© 2005, jules.maas. All rights reserved.
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