Thursday, November 8, 2012

Beward the Ides of Sudafed, or, Happy Birthday to Me!

I'm not telling you readers in Russia that it's my birthday just so you'll send me bottles of Grey Goose and/or Stoli (that I would responsibly put in the pantry for The Man's consumption as vodka and I are now mortal enemies, thanks to the Devil Punch I drank at the Halloween Party of Doom) but because I believe I'm entering Mid-Life Crisis Territory and ALSO because I want to save you from the dangers of Sudafed. And run-on sentences. You're welcome, in advance.

True story: yesterday I was busy in the kitchen (where, unfortunately for Your Favorite Writer, I spend 95% of my time) and I took some Sudafed to defeat the heinous sinus pressure attempting to destroy my face from within.  Only after I'd swallowed the two gigantic horse-tranquilizer-sized pills (I have no idea what size Ketamine comes in.)(I know it's Ketamine because I have friends with nefarious pasts.)(no really, it honestly is my friends, and not like when someone says "friend" but really means "me.") and then - and only then - looked at the box. Hells bells, Readers in Latvia, it was a 12-hour extended release sudafed and I'd taken TWO. Dos. Duex.

Well shit fire and fall in it.

Because I am nothing if not responsible (and mildly alarmist) I called the local pharmacist at Ye Olde City Pharmacopia. He said I would probably only feel like I'd had too much coffee, but shouldn't worry. He was also a dirty liar. Did I mention I'm sensitive to stimulants? No?

I felt like I'd had too much METH.

I walked back and forth, muttering to myself and scratching my head because it felt like bugs were crawling on my scalp. I told The Man that I needed a nice, quiet corner to go and twitch in. He, predictably, finished a work email and seemed unfazed by my pacing and scratching. I wonder if he'd notice if I chewed a hole in my face. I have a friend (no, really) who knew someone who did that. Stay off the meth, kids. Holes in faces = NOT COOL.

Taking two double-your-pleasure-double-your-fun Sudafeds (the goods too, not the fake sudafed; the real deal stuff they hide behind the counter) was also not cool.

Then, because my life is rich and full, it apparently triggered a migraine - after giving me enough restless pacing energy that I felt compelled to clean under the litterbox. Our dorky Himalayan can't figure out where the box begins and her fluffy hindquarters end; thus, we end up with litter and/or potty accidents right by the box. It wasn't a mess, but I felt it MUST BE CLEANED. RIGHT NOW.

When I had finally cleaned it to my Sudafed's satisfaction, I plopped on the couch for Favorite Show TV-time. And a migraine. Good times! I gave up before bed and medicated myself with my boyfriend, Maxalt. Or, as I like to call it, Supermax. Like a hardcore prison, only full of awesome instead of violent hardened criminals.

Supermax kicked in and was enough of a downer that I could sleep, despite the dirty sudafed. Don't mix uppers and downers, kids. It's what killed Elvis. Two things Elvis and I have in common; although my drug use was purely accidental and then medically necessary. I certainly don't need the Colonel or whatever he called his manager to come in and start making me peanut butter and bacon sandwiches. Elvis and I do NOT share culinary tastes.

This morning when I woke up thinking "stupid ass Sudafed" it was immediately followed by "it's my dirty birthday" and then "why is my fat cat yowling downstairs?" My life, Friends, is full of the Fabulous at 6 a.m.

Then I commenced the mandatory mourning for my ever-disappearing youth. Good times! The Man will be off finishing his tattoo tonight, and while I'm not irate, per se, I do think that if anyone is getting tattoos on my birthday, it should rightly be ME.Especially when I had a startling epiphany yesterday in the shower. I decided on the cover-ups for my youthful tattoos. I also decided that since I'm *clearly* not getting any younger, or wiser honestly, I should at least kick some of my biggest regrets in the crotch.

Or regret, singular.

That, Friends in France, is a WHOOOOLE other blog post. This is also what I do. Talking about it, thinking about it, writing about it is so intense for me and so painful that I usually end up sniffling into my coffee mug and stomping off to do laundry while furiously NOT THINKING about it.

Bear with me. I'll get there.

I'm hoping to actually kick myself in the pants enough to *DO* something about it. I've told a lot of my friends my plans, the same way that I would if I were going to stop smoking. If I smoked. You know, you tell people so that you will have outside enforcement.

My biggest regret is that I gave up my first love, my career path choice, my dream without even TRYING. I was a big, dirty quitter. I, the list making, ass-kicking, name-taking flaming ball of intense determination just...let it die. I KNOW exactly what happens to a dream deferred, Mr. Hughes. It doesn't fester like a sore, then run - that would imply it was on the surface. My dream deferred was like a limb I lost; I know it's gone, but I feel the phantom pain and it will always be missing. Something so integral to who I am, who I was, severed so clinically and so permanently.

But we've come a long way in how we treat catastrophic injuries. Just like people, God love them, who have lost a limb can get a prosthetic and walk again, maybe I can find my own metaphorical prosthetic. It will never be what it was before I lost it, but maybe it can be something again.

Maybe I can grieve it, and try to actually heal it. Maybe I can write about it. Maybe I can use this birthday to push myself to try and dream again.

Comments, questions, need to know where to send the VIP tickets?




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