Every few heartbeats life can throw you lemons. And you know what you make? Lemon Jell-O shooters, that’s what you make. Screw the lemonade. Lemonade is for rookies.
And, with that in mind, allow me to regale you, with yet another Sunday session of the saga: “How the Boob Turns.” In my case, literally.
Oh, poor Dr. Bruno. Every time he sees me, which is more than my own husband, his inner brain probably mutters: “Oh, crap. You again?” But his outer, more professional, non-litigious voice asks, ”So what can we do for you today?” I look down, then up, then down again and up. He gets my point. He knows what’s broken. I just don’t know what he would do if I came to see him for another body part realignment, I really don’t. I think l’ll mess with his head next time and ask for a Brazilian butt lift. That should be fun. Also, he needs to consider setting me up with an in-office guest suite and mini-bar. It would save us both copious amounts of time. And I would leave on a merrier note. Win-win.
Well, to shorten what I would love to make a very long, drawn-out story, let’s just say I’m not meant to have a double package. Two Krimpets to a package are good; tires in sets are also good. Two feet? Perfect, even if they’re both left. Doubles in tennis? Of course. Jack Daniels…make it a double? Natch. But my breasts ? Not in this lifetime, apparently. Due to all sorts of complications you don’t want to read about with your Sunday coffee and glazed donut, let’s just say I am one man down and it may have to stay that way.
So, when you see me, don’t comment on the dichotomy of my body. That is: half of me looks like a 10 year-old boy, the other half like a pre-pubescent 12 year-old girl. I am crooked, off kilter. I am Mrs. Potato Head who forgot to attach her spud-rack. And, frankly, I don’t think I’m bothered by it in the least. For me, I just feel lucky to be here tapping out this stupid, repetitive story yet again and not in that shiny urn on the library mantle. (Remember– that’s where I’ll be in 50 years. Don’t forget to visit.) Maybe then I will finally find the balance I’m now missing.
Life is a carnival and we are prone on an endlessly moving merry-go-round. Once you feel settled, it’s time to change ponies or hop off entirely. Sometimes you’re disoriented and confused and debate leaping back on…or you could change course entirely and secure a seat on the more sedate, less dramatic Ferris wheel. That’s no fun.
(Me? I need something between the roller coaster and the tea cups.)
Once you disembark that merry-go-round, maybe for a little break, you’re disoriented and lightheaded. You may even feel a bit surreal, like you’ve stepped into an alternate universe called Crazytown.
I visited Crazytown this week, with a rest stop in DizzyFalls, PA.
I woke up two weeks after surgery, got out of bed and immediately hit the floor.
Huh. How unusual when I’m sober.
I scraped myself back up, fondled the wall like Ray Charles and went to awaken my children. And then, I fell into the door. I washed my face and hit my head on the sink. I had become a cartoon character and I wasn’t even drawn cute.
This went on all day. Diagnosis: vertigo.
If you’ve been keeping abreast of current library activities, you know we’re celebrating Women’s History Month with 30 cut-out displays of famous women in history. As I stumbled into work that day, I thought if I just propped myself behind the desk, next to a radioactive, one-dimensional Madame Curie and pretended to work, as I do every day, no would notice that I had the spins.
Alas, I had to move. Upside? How many of us can say we fell head-first into Marie Antoinette and her ridiculous hairdo? (Though she does have two boobs, lucky minx). Who among us has knocked Amelia Earhart to the floor, between juvenile fiction and the bathroom? She wasn’t even in her plane and she went down. I also fell into poor little Rosa Parks, Annie Oakley and Mother Theresa, who was not amused but forgave me anyway. It’s how she rolls, cardboard or otherwise.
A strange few weeks it has been, dear readers. It also happens to be Holy Week and I will tell you that my Monsignor Sempa’s chat on Palm Saturday truly hit home. He pointed out that every single one of us has met with some type of misfortune in our lives. Job loss, death, body part misplacement, mental illness….check, check and check - he was speaking right to me. His point was this: You take it, you let it percolate a few days and you deal with it. You build a bridge and get over it. If for no other week than for this week. And then, you simply carry on, my friends. You carry on.
Life is full of ick. Everyone has something they need to excavate. Every. One. But be assured, only you can dig out and find your own little nugget of happiness. Just you.
You aren’t going to find it in a bar, in a pharmacy or at Dr. Bruno’s office. Well actually, you might find it in Dr. Bruno’s office depending on the assignment. Botox might warm the laborious wrinkles of my own soul, for example.
But listen to me: True happiness is a sustainable delight in the beautiful moments of ordinary life. It’s right there. Grab it and run. Try the merry-go-round, try the tea cups, but seize it. Delight in the ordinary life.
And, don’t forget to snatch the lemon Jell-o shooters on your way out.