Friday, January 13, 2012
Starving children don't have to worry about fat pants.
Let me preface this post by saying I know that I have a relatively easy life. I have a house with ample space, plenty of food, two working vehicles, (mostly) healthy kids, my husband's job is secure, I have the option to stay home rather than work. I went to college. No one is beating me. I don't have to put my mad pole dancing skills to use to put food on the table. I have access to good health care. I have friends and family who love me. I'm lucky. I know it.
I know that there are people living in horrific situations. I know there are starving children. I know there are people dying of illnesses. Any hardship I might be enduring is nothing in comparison. I acknowledge that.
And now that that's out of the way, screw the starving children! I don't care about them or the horrible situations others are in right now. I am unabashedly, shamelessly, selfishly feeling sorry for myself.
A few months ago I had a minor Lupus flare up. I kept it on the down-low because the people who would worry the most about it had other things to worry about. Like not getting blown up. It's mostly gone now, but it's left me tired. The steroids I had to take have packed on yet another 15 pounds, thinned my hair considerably, and have given me a lovely fat-filled hump on my back. At least Quasimodo got to live in Paris. My hump and I are stuck in Hicksville, Tennessee. The accompanying arthritis is still lingering. The stretches of days when I don't write? It's not because I have nothing to say. It's because my knuckles are so stiff and swollen it hurts to type.
My quiet, lovely neighborhood is rapidly becoming "the hood." Remember on Halloween when my neighbor yelled, "Hide the weed! The popo's here!" when Liam went to their door dressed as a cop? Well, last night the popo dragged that same neighbor off in handcuffs. And last Saturday there was a meth lab explosion a few streets away. Ben took it upon himself to explain what a meth lab is to Liam and Amelia, and now Liam thinks selling drugs is a dangerous yet viable career choice if he's not accepted into the Justice League.
And this morning I awoke to yet another e-mail letting me know that Will's flight out of Afghanistan has been delayed another two days in addition to the five they'd already tacked on. I know it's only a week extra. I know. But my brain, my body, and my will to keep functioning have all gone on strike.
This is basically how it went down this morning:
Me: "O.K., brain, body, will to keep functioning--I know promises were made. I know you thought a break was coming. Things happened. We've got ten more days to get through. Maybe more."
B, B, WtKF: "Look, bitch. We had an agreement. We were told a year. The year is up. We're going to be over here on the couch watching Project Runway and eating chimichangas. You're on your own."
So, that's where I'm at right now.
If you tell me to look on the bright side, I will punch you square in the taco.
Posted by Brandi at 10:24 AM