When one cannot tell one’s ass from one’s elbow.
I have no idea why I have been thinking about this malady, but it has kept on popping up in my head over the course of the day. And now I pass it along to you, in the hopes that it now will leave me alone.
Today when I woke up, I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror: Bleh, a little dirt on my face, right in the smile lines. Now how did that get there? Wait a sec, why isn’t it coming off when I rub it? Hey, why is it still there after I splash my face with water.? Holy crap.
It’s bruising. Right there in my “Marionette Lines”! NO!!!
It’s bad enough to have the dreaded Marionette Lines (it’s a dead giveaway of someone’s age, unless they’ve had a facelift or some injectable thingy like Restalyne; whenever someone tells me how I look really young, I’m thinking: well, don’t look at my smile lines then). It’s insult to injury to have them indelibly inked with black and blue marks. It’s as if my face were left out in the sun for too long, and now it’s melting. Eventually, the black and blue drip should reach my toes, and then I guess I’ll be alright.
But I wasn’t leaving it to chance. Besides, I totally cannot breathe out of my nose. And from Friday’s standpoint, it’s a long way to Monday when I can see my doctor again. So back to the city I went, where I probably scared most of Madison Avenue, despite wearing sunglasses so large, Nicole Richie would be proud of them. Honestly, even my doctor looked a little taken aback. I am in the very small percentage of very very very bad bruisers. It’s like, do I have to win every Suffering Sweepstake I enter? Jeez.
I got a prescription for some ‘roids. I told the Husband to lock me out of the house if I start acting all ragey. Actually, I did not do that. I had to take steroids before, when I was on chemo – Decadron, to be exact – and the only effect it had on me was to make me feel so energized, I ended up circling Central Park three times (6.1 miles each time) on my Rollerblades. After that one time, it never had the effect on me again. But I don’t feel like thinking back to those bald, fat, eyelashless days.
I also have the good doctor’s phone number at his country house, which I will try really really hard not to use, even if I have to hide it from myself.
What I think I will do is wait for the heat and humidity to die down a bit and then transfer some Daffodils out and some Zinnias and Marigolds in. Daffodils are either done for the season or just don’t thrive in the intense sunlight that is my back porch. I still have some Pumpkin and Cucumber plants to transfer from their birthplaces. I grew them from seeds in little planters. Now that they’re all growed up, I have to move them to someplace they can stay for a while. Then I have some Chrysanthemums I want to plant. But I can’t do it all in one day, unless I want to look like Violet Beauregard after the gum-chewing incident.
Man, it is hot over here.