So many Internet/wordpress format problems lately, and then I think to myself, iPhone app. And well, here I am.
Well I did something monumentally stupid last night. Without thinking, a regrettably bad decision was made.
We went to Down Town Disney and met some friends there. Had a couple of glasses of wine and people watched. All was right with the world. Walked around a bit. Had a lil more vino. Then the headache set in. For some reason all I had in my purse was vicodin. (it’s my LAST RESORT against cramps and I’m on DAY F’ING 12 of my period, which is an entirely different post) I can’t say against my better judgement, because let’s face it. There was no judgement. I took one. I AM ALLERGIC TO VICODIN. It makes me VIOLENTLY ILL. (If I take it, the pain has to be bad enough to willingly itch and vomit. Tell me, how did I not factor that small fact in?). Add wine to that. Let’s just say it’s 2:30 and I’m still in bed. REGRETTABLY BAD DECISION.
Don’t judge me, I already feel bad enough AND I’ve already gotten the “you can’t abuse your body like this” speech from husband. I didn’t do it on purpose, I just didn’t think.
ME: “I have a headache. Dang, no Tylenol”.
ME: “Oh but here’s some vicodin, I’ll just take that, just a better Tylenol, really”.
BETTER JUDGEMENT: *Silence*
But here’s the thing. In TWO DAYS I’m going to be 33. Ever since my 30th birthday I get depressed at birthday time. I don’t want presents, I don’t want attention. JUST A BIG FAT NOTHING. (except this year I’m asking for Lupron and estrogen). It’s just inching me closer to 35, and as we infertiles all know, 35 is when “Advanced Maternal Age” sets in. Such a rude phrase. I hate it. They should change it to something like “Emotionally and Financially Ready Maternal Age”-EFRMA. It would mean the same but maybe give us a Label to feel smug about instead of just old and dusty.
Anywho, I HATE my birthday. So I act out and make REGRETTABLY BAD DECISIONS such as the one I made last night.
I am a freak about age. Remember being 14 and just DYING to be 16? Or 19 or 20 and DYING to be 21? Now, if you tell me you’re 31 or 32 I’m secretly and shamefully envious of you because I’m closer to 35 than you are. Hell, I’m jealous if you are six months younger than me.
I AM SO FREAKING NEUROTIC.