I got my new cat suit yesterday. This model is a lot less sexy than the last one. It’s white (instead of black) and doesn’t have any zippers up the sides. Like Spanx, it’s a “pull on/pull off” model. It still comes installed with the missing pie hole at the bottom, which makes it super convenient. I really think Spanx missed the mark on this one. Aesthetics, without utility, only works for art installations. If they had focused more on the utility of their product versus its “sleekness,” it would have been an even bigger hit than it is already. (Sleek is for seals and Porches). Not having a poop chute is a huge oversight.
Yesterday, a friend texted and asked how I was doing. After replying something benign, I whispered under my breath (to myself), “It’s 97 degrees and I’m wearing fucking sweatpants, how the hell do you think I’m doing?” Russ heard this and asked the inevitable, “Why aren’t you wearing shorts?” I skipped over the necessity of an elastic waistband and said huffily, “I’ve got my cat suit on, so I can’t.” Russ didn’t understand this at all. He said, “Who cares if anyone sees it. It will just look like you’re wearing bike shorts under your regular shorts.” Bingo. Herein lies the problem. They don’t look like bike shorts, they look like Spanx. No one is supposed to see your Spanx. When I happen to see someone else’s, it’s like driving past the aftermath of a car wreck—you want to look away, but can’t.
As I’ve stated before, my stomach is currently running the show. It’s befuddling to all of my senses, but right now, my diet consists almost solely of Doritos. Anyone who knows me understands the astronomically slim chance of these words ever coming out of my mouth. I eat chips of any kind about as often as I drink a soda which is maybe twice a year. Now I crave them all-of-the-time, both Nacho and Cool Ranch, and they don’t upset my stomach. Go figure.
For the most part, I eat very healthy and will eat almost everything that falls under that umbrella. When I was a kid, I had a lot more opinions on the subject. There were several things on my “no-can-do list”: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; pancakes with anything in them other than just plain pancake batter; mayonnaise; butter; iced tea; and “bug juice.” (Ewww, and still ewww on the bug juice).
My staples were liverwurst sandwiches; mustard, the only acceptable condiment; Captain Crunch; and after school, “Red Devil” which was a can of Campbells’ tomato soup heated on the stovetop, with sliced American cheese melted in it, spread over toast. (This was long before microwaves, so it was a bit of an “after school ritual” to make this).
The only thing I still refuse to eat from my kid days, that lives in the “healthy” column, is oysters. I hate to admit, I can’t remember if I’ve ever even tried one. The first time I saw an adult eat one, I watched in horror as my own mother, and (BFF) Heather’s mom, threw their heads back, and simultaneously slurped them down with great delight, like a couple of yentas with a forbidden shot of vodka.
This is my argument against oysters: first, their color closely resembles a deceased organ sadly missing its original rodent host. (Confession: I have no idea what a “deceased” rodent organ looks like. Or any other deceased organ that belongs to any and all fauna for that matter.); secondly, I have never had the ability to reconcile eating a food that has the surface area and density required for chewing, yet, instead, it just slides down your throat like a giant loogie. (Question: how do people not choke? I don’t see the fun in it at all. Chewing your food counts as part of the fun.). I’m not usually one to decline trying something new, but to this day, I see an oyster and have to turn away in nauseated disgust. It’s still a hard no.
My “surgically-improved” body is working out other things too, besides its newly-designed food pyramid. Russ leaned in really close the other night, eyes squinting, pointing at a spot on my face and asked, “Is that a pimple?” Before I had time to respond, a lightbulb suddenly flicked on over his head—a metaphorical epiphany. “Oh my God,” he said, “is that a pimple, too??” A slight pause. “It’s like you have a ‘twimple!!’” Twin pimples. Nice. Even I laughed hysterically at this observation. This has to be the result of the Dorito diet. Seriously though, how can I have no ovaries and still manufacture pimples at warp speed? For the last ten years I’ve been waiting for that door to close, especially as the rate of wrinkles and grey hair picked up speed, but nooo, that hasn’t happened. It’s like a three horse race to the bitter end.
I’m calling my leave of absence from work my “hysterectomy leave.” I’m having a break from the office, just like maternity leave. I think it’s a fair assumption that new mothers and new hysterectomisists have the same feeling something awkward happened with our bodies we might not ever fully recover from. The difference is I’m nursing myself instead of a newly-minted tiny human. Sounds easier, right? Well, my own grunting and moaning wake me up throughout the night as I am constantly trying to find a more comfortable position. In short, I’m like my own giant baby. It all sounds very dramatic, but that’s just poetic license. I do make a lot of noise (that part is true), but it gets easier every night. This is just like any other injury. You start to compensate elsewhere to accommodate what’s hurt, and it makes everything else a little sore and out of whack.
I’m lucky because I have a great nurse in the evenings. (Bonus: He’s hot, too). Russ takes great care of me and whips up mac-and-cheese so I have something to eat besides Doritos. (Yes, everything I eat right now is made with Red 40 and Yellow 5 & 6. Like I’m five.). Somehow my restless sleeping doesn’t disturb him too much. I don’t know how this is possible. I asked him the other evening, “You liked it better when I was knocked out [on painkillers], didn’t you?” To which he replied, “I liked it a lot better when we were knocking boots.”