All the Horrible Girliness

Breathing

I haven't done much but lay in bed and read this weekend. I went to a Christmas party last night, filled with all the married gorgeous ladies in my life. We are all very congratulatory of one another, openly admiring one another's breasts and legs and asses, flirting like pubescent lipstick lesbians. One of them is a pastry chef. I came to an understanding, early in my diet, about food: diet is about day-in-day-out stuff, not celebrations. My evenings in front of Sex and the City DVDs and pints of ice cream were not celebrations. So I managed to go to Mrs. Pastry Chef's wedding and still lose weight.

Sometimes I am annoyed with my distinct Lack of Level in WoW. Everyone I like to play with is far ahead of me. But showers tire me out these days; competition drains me. Looking at computer screens for too long makes me queasy. So I lay in bed and read. Today I found myself trying to force yawns and realized I was having trouble breathing again.

I went to the doctor for it a few months ago. He is old and odd, maybe even a bit flirty, but he is good and does not make me wait. He listened to my breathing and asked some questions and then told me, offhand, that it was all in my head. I expected sad news coupled with a prescription for a drug that would be inserted into my body in some loud and cool way. I wanted to hear ASTHMA, I wanted to hear INHALER, I wanted to hear YOU POOR THING. I wanted to puff miserably at my inhaler during particularly stressful meetings at work.

He gave me a prescription for an x-ray, to be done at a lab someplace else. I didn't feel like going back to work, so I swung by one of the walk-in places and slapped my prescription down. The lady there said, "I'm so sorry, any other day I'd put you right in, but we've had a really busy day and there's a two-hour wait." So I went home, picked up some lunch and went back to work to give the humiliating news that I was making shit up.

My boss took me into her office. She is very motherly and a meandering converser, which bothers the living fuck out of a girl like me. Give me the bullet points, please. Even worse, she decided that it was a good time to talk Jesus with me. I went through sixteen years of severe Jesus, more severe than you might imagine. I was scary, right up there with the Scientologists and Witnesses and Mormons you avoid at the bus stop. I do not dig the Jesus talk these days. It strikes ugly chords in my psyche.

It was good, though. She told me I needed to give over control to God, that I couldn't handle everything. Indeed, that is how I live my life: controlling and planning every detail, so that when things go wrong, it's a travesty. She told me I needed to take quiet time every day to be with God. She did not force pamphlets or a particular religion on me, and it was completely inappropriate worktime conversation, but I needed it. I don't even know if I really believe in God. Ever since I met Mr. Aran, he has been God to me, in that old-school Catholic way of finding God in your family. I can't see God. The abstract doesn't mesh well with me. But I see my husband every day. He is my Divine.

After that came a tough time of letting go of some control and giving it over to my husband. Now that I'm sick and tired, I've been forced to allow him to help me out. One morning I was so exhausted and sick that I wept. He laid down next to me and fed me bits of bread and cheese until I was strong enough to get up. Now that is God.

So today I'm reading and I find myself gulping for air again. Making myself yawn and being unable to. The old panicky feeling crept up, and then the logical mind took over. Was I being a control freak? Had I taken on responsibility that wasn't mine?

Then I unhooked my bra and felt a little better. I think my boobs have just gotten too big for it.

posted by Samus @ 7:39 PM