Being an adult isn’t for the fainthearted. It’s hard work and responsibility and I’m really not sure I’m up to the challenge.
Too bad my body doesn’t always agree. A week or so ago I developed the woozies. It’s not exactly the same as feeling faint. I tried to explain it to Hubby as something like that moment when you know you’ve had enough wine, but you also realize you’ve already had another glass before your body got the message. Of course that didn’t work, seeing as he doesn’t drink any alcohol and it really didn’t feel that way at all. Not that I’m really a big drinker (Hemmingway would be disappointed, but then I’ve always been disappointed in his views on women), but I was a student and stuff happened.
Then I realised Hubby was as big a sci-fi geek as I was (that really was the reason I first started dating him), so I told him what the woozies really felt like: it feels like my mind is slightly out of phase with the rest of the world.
Of course this freaked him out and I was packed off to the doctor. She didn’t really get the out-of-phase thing, but she obliged me with an exam and an EKG – my first ever. Do you know how many wires they stick on you? They also stuck one on each of my breasts, just above the bra-line. This was obviously the closest part to my heart, but this really fascinated me: are those stickery-wires sensitive enough to hear your heart through all that booby? What if the woman had some really impressive breasts, would that affect the readings?
The nurse informed me breasts did not impede the function of the thingies. Fake breasts also had no effect on them.
A few minutes later I was back in the doctor’s office, hearing the results. Well, apparently Johnny and I wouldn’t have been able to follow my heartbeat and dance the cha-cha. Or whatever he and Baby danced. I’m a very bad dancer either way and my heart was giving an extra beat every now and then. I love Dirty Dancing, but that really is as far as my dancing career goes.
Sitting there, hearing about my errant heart, I was feeling slightly sorry for myself. And hungry. I was very hungry. For some really incomprehensible reason I hadn’t eaten that day and my belly was rumbling. So I found myself staring at the jar of lollipops on the doctor’s desk instead of listening to an explanation of why my heart was behaving so badly. Would she give me a lollipop if I told her I was hungry? I know the bobble of sugar won’t really help and I know she would know, but they were starting to look very appetizing. Maybe if I asked her nicely? But I’m a few days short of my 35th birthday and I’m way past that age where I could pretend to be cute and younger than I really am. Besides, it’s written there in the file right in front of her: I’m too old for lollipops.
Like I explained earlier: being an adult is difficult. It’s not that I couldn’t buy my own lollipop afterwards, it’s the principle of the thing. I hate having to act like I’m all grown up. Chronologically I might be 35, but my mind didn’t get the message.
So I decided: screw it. Actually, this seems to be a recurring theme in my life. It’s getting me into a lot of trouble. But I got my lollipop. The blue one that stained my tongue for half an hour. Also, I’m not dying. My heart is fine. All in all, a successful day.