Well, I made it through the move mostly intact. I did sustain some damage to my digestive system–whether viral in nature or induced by a potent combination of pre and post-move celebratory beer, three screw drivers, two pints of coconut ice cream, and a vat of espresso, I can’t really be sure. Now, six cars’ worth of boxes and furniture and seven laundry loads later, I’m settled in at my parents’ house until the big move in August. The plan was for a three week marathon of cooking and eating, but the current condition of my stomach has put a bit of a damper on things. Instead, I’ve spent my time here so far passed out on the couch, watching TV, or–if I’m feeling really productive–knocking off more pages of my crossword puzzle book. This foray back into the couch potato-dom of my former depressive days has been interspersed with a whole host of doctor’s visits (prescheduled ones, unrelated to my stress, alcohol, and caffeine binge), so all in all it’s been a banner week for me.
I’m trying hard not to be salty about this turn of events, but I can feel the clock running down and these last days of living at home seem fleeting and precious. Also, it’s a little hard to maintain your grace and composure when it feels like the universe is deliberately fucking with you. I’ve already had to reschedule my ketamine infusion because I didn’t think an hour long trip on a drug that produces mild hallucinations and double-vision would jibe well with the amount of nausea I was experiencing. I did an extremely scientific experiment to test this theory where I watched the last ten minutes of a Nicholas Sparks movie (judge all you want–I’m already judging myself harder) while crossing my eyes and slowly shaking my head back and forth. Results were inconclusive, but I decided to push my appointment back to err on the side of caution.
That alone wouldn’t have been so bad, but then came the real gem in this treasure trove of misery. (If you’re squeamish about female genitalia, I suggest you stop reading this post–or better yet this entire blog, as I have no patience for what I’m assuming is either a lack of maturity or, worse yet, some inane gender bias.) I went in for a physical and was nearly through with my Pap smear when my vagina decided it had had enough and transformed the speculum into a projectile weapon, launching it across the room at a surprising velocity. While I couldn’t see where it landed as I was flat on my back on the exam table, from the sound of things it achieved some real hang time. At first, I thought the device had simply been removed, but then I heard the clatter of plastic against tile floor and the doctor, in a tone of bemusement, saying, “Wow–I’ve never seen that before.” I’ll take Things You Don’t Want To Hear From Your Doctor for 2,000, Alex. I should have been mortified, but thankfully I have no shame and was too busy trying vainly to stifle my laughter. As soon as the doctor left the room I whipped out my phone and gleefully relayed the story to my best friend in graphic detail. She was very impressed with my vaginal strength, and then asked a follow-up question that hadn’t even occurred to me–“Did it hit anyone?” Considering this possibility sent me into a fresh wave of hysterics. Fortunately for everyone involved, the answer is no–the doctor was clear of the line of fire. Otherwise, I might have proposed rounding out the appointment with a mercy killing. Perhaps next time I’m at at a gynecology appointment I’ll request they wear a helmet–just to be safe.
The only item left on my medical checklist is a visit to the dentist’s office tomorrow to grind off the residual glue from my DIY dental work removal where, at the rate this week is going, I’ll most likely clamp down on the dentist’s hand, severing a finger or two, then inhale the digits and choke to death in a bizarre and gruesome fashion worthy of a Final Destination sequel. But hey, at least I won’t have murdered anyone with my vagina–and right now that seems like the most I can ask for.