I don’t know why, but I’m feeling down. Maybe because I can’t work. Maybe because my hand hurts. Maybe because I’m not all the way awake, yet. Or because my meds haven’t kicked in. I just feel kind of lousy.
Maybe because I have something for the pain, but I would feel guilty about taking it.
I don’t think I’m supposed to be taking all of this ibuprofen on account of my blood pressure. I’m not really supposed to take it at all, I don’t think. But Tylenol by itself is useless. Not strong enough.
My brother also has high blood pressure, and he’s even younger than me. And he’s not heavy. I think it’s genetic.
Today is already Wednesday. Before I know it, I’ll be back at work. Then I’ll have my other surgery. But then I’ll be back at work again.
If I went back as soon as Thursday, though, I might be tempted to try to do things I shouldn’t to be helpful. Especially if James is still out.
The kid might be right. It might be too much. He thought even coming back in the following week might be too much. But I think I’ll be okay by next Monday.
I think I could go in and peel labels with my left hand any time. But that might be all I could do. Even stacking boxes, I would need both hands.
I don’t know. I guess I’ll see how I’m doing today and then maybe that’s a conversation I can have with Eddie.
The anesthesia hasn’t upset my stomach, so far. That’s one thing I get nervous about, because in 2003 I had my wisdom teeth out, and I was in bed for I think three days straight, throwing up. They insisted I had the flu, but I know my body and I did not have the flu.
They said not to eat anything heavy. But I don’t know for how long. Lately, I’ve been into comfort food, which is notoriously heavy.
That Motorcycle Kid is married, or has a girlfriend, so I don’t know what he’s looking at me for.
Like, why me? I’m a 45-year-old warehouse mama.
I could just be totally paranoid. I’m sure not paranoid about that dude on second shift who relentlessly bids for my attention, though.
The good news is I hardly ever see him anymore. The guy is little, seriously. I could squash him like a pea. I should tell him that. It would probably intrigue him, though. Bleh.
I don’t mean to make fun of little guys; believe it or not I’m small-framed, as well. And I had crushes on little guys in my pre-Derek days…just not this little guy.
I just think it’s weird that he likes me so much. I hope it’s not, like, a fetish. Ewww.
I don’t know. Evan seemed genuinely surprised I wasn’t under 40—I’m not sure how that is, but anyway…
I just think, I’m overweight. Do I hide it exceptionally well with the way I dress? I don’t think so, there’s only so much you can do when you’re 5’1 and you weigh…what I weigh.
Or is it possible that the pictures I’ve seen are just unflattering, and maybe I look slightly better than I think I do?
Not to jump to an only somewhat related subject, but I’m going to…you know what’s really fascinating about Ray? Now that he’s gotten over his thing about talking to me, he doesn’t really stare anymore. Now he’s pretty much just pleasant toward me like he is with everyone else. No big deal.
See, Ray? I’m not so scary. I told you I was a lovely person.
You can say it. I am too wrapped up in my own physical appearance, I know.
I would kill, yes, commit first degree murder to go back to a place in time when I was blissfully unaware of and unencumbered by my stupid looks.
That would be something like second or third grade. Before I started sprouting acne and getting a bit chubby from all those Tony Lena tuna subs.
Even then, though, I wasn’t really heavy. Until about my 30s, I was always reasonably thin, and more often I was unreasonably thin. I was just made to feel my weight was unacceptable, by other people who should’ve damn well kept their mouths shut.
I will never, never do to Aislyn what was done to me. Nobody else better try, either, or I will rip them a new one! She is beautiful, the end. But most importantly, I need her to know that.
How do I accomplish that, though, when my own brain is so scrambled?
I wish I could just accept the fact that, like everyone else, I am flawed. That what I look like is not who I am.
I’m going to have to accept it in another 40 years, aren’t I. I’m not going to be very glamorous at 85. Who is?
All two of the 100-year-old men at the nursing home will be hobbling around, going, “Oh, Leah, you don’t look a day over 70!” And I’ll still be all, “Do you think they really mean it?”
Oh, God. It’s so sad, it’s almost funny.
Have a good day, worker bees. Drive safely, and as always, thanks for listenin’ to me whine.