This Fish Needs A Bicycle

on dying, flying and my tushie

I had a horrible nightmare about being in a wheelchair at Planned Parenthood.

And I blame last night's Presidential debates entirely. Or, at least, the ensuing conversations about the debates. Partial birth abortion, morning after pills and the state of health care for women -- put four Thai-food filled girls in front of the TV and listen to the tangents fly. Bush made a joke that we only caught the very end of (“never mind”) because we were busy roaring over the DMA. Perhaps it would have been more interesting if we didn’t all agree on the issues, but probably a little more violent too. I’m all for stopping the violence.

Anyway, back to my dream.

When I finally decided that I’d had enough of the wheelchair, I began flying. That part was not scary. Ordinarily, when I fly in dreams, it’s like swimming. You know, lots of arm motion required. This time, all I had to do was point in the direction I wanted to go, and off I went, sort of floating. It was all very graceful. But the kicker of the Planned Parenthood saga was when I finally got in to see a doctor, she called all my friends into the exam room. I was a bit confused and concerned – I mean, was she at least going to draw the curtain at least before doing her, ahem, doctorly stuff? Turns out, she just wanted to talk -- to tell my friends I’d had a rough six months and that I WAS DYING.

Come again? Baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Dying?! Mmm hmmm. At this point, I commanded myself to wake up. And I obeyed.

I woke up at 5 AM, did a quick diagnostic, determined that I was not, indeed, dying. Then, I went to the kitchen and ate some strawberry ice cream. Just in case I was. You know what they say about life being uncertain – eat dessert constantly.

On a dessert-related note, the other night, a well-meaning Benjamin told me I looked bony (I love that men have this way of picking the wrong words – it reminded me very much of an Everybody Loves Raymond episode). I’d just downed a hefty portion of lobster ravioli and chocolate mousse. I’m pretty sure I gave him the “What you talkin’ bout Willis” look in return. So last night, when Jen told me I looked skinny, I had to ask, “In a bad way?” “No,“ she assured me. Sometimes I actually worry that my own body image issues keep me from seeing the correct reflection. But this morning, when I wriggled into my black pants, I sighed. They were snug in the trunk, and a definitely-not-waify size 8. Everything is as it should be.