I’m squinting at an Excel spreadsheet right now, deciding how to work a manicure into my life. It’s a lot of fun. See, first I say, “Which do I want more? A manicure or…” and then I fill in the blank with the list of alternative items I have come up with:
Birth control refill Christmas gifts for those I love Gas Groceries
You can see how well I’m doing with this.
In my former life, I would have looked at my fingers and toes, made a pouty face at their state of general hideousness and then crossed First Avenue for a mani/pedi with Elana. I would not have paused to consider the budget because, what’s a budget? I had credit cards. Oh, those magical little pieces of plastic. To which I am HARNESSED for the REST OF MY EXISTENCE. Sometimes I could just karate chop my younger self in the throat for all the times I slid one of those things across the counter without a second thought.
But, you’d be so proud. You really would. I haven’t bought anything I didn’t have cash for in over a year. I haven’t even used a credit card except once, for the movers this summer, and then speedily paid it off. Like my mom said, shilling out more than half my monthly income to debts already incurred – items purchased and worn out, meals eaten and forgotten - has made a real believer out of me. Credit cards are bad news. I had excellent credit, so creditors kept extending it and I, well, I kept spending. And now, I never want to be in debt ever, ever again. I don’t want anything that requires monthly payments – except, of course, for a house one day.
The crazy thing is, even when my inner spendthrift is pouting because she wants her nails done, or a new pair of shoes, the rest of me feels really, really good. And satisfied. A review of my 2009 tells me I’ve successfully eliminated eight thousand dollars of debt and any which way you look at it, that’s huge. It’s excellent, really.
I’ve also gotten very good with cuticle scissors. Reformed spender. Do-it-yourselfer.
I had my first migraine at the age of eight or nine. It was Sunday, after church. Dad was cooking chicken. Beyond that, I only remember lying in the fetal position on the couch with a headache so blinding, I couldn’t make sense of anything. Oh, yes. And also that my mom called the neighbor doctor over to make sure I wasn’t dying of an aneurysm, like the other eight-year-old Heather she’d just read about in Good Housekeeping that month. I gotta say, my timing was right on target for some real, gen-u-ine maternal panic. Hoo-boy!
Since then, I’ve had a few memorable trips down migraine lane. Like, the insanely embarrassing time when at 19 years of age, I had to have my dad had to come get me from work, because I couldn’t drive. Or stop blowing snot bubbles. Or when I lay on the bathroom floor of my New York apartment sobbing and retching until the super’s wife came to the door to see if I was gonna make it. Who says New Yorkers are cold and unfriendly?
After recurring at six month intervals for most of my adult life, though, the headaches just went away. And for long enough (since October 2007, I think), that I mostly forgot what it’s like to want to pluck your own eye out and stomp on it. But Sunday night, as my sodium and magic levels were returning to a post-Disney normal, I started to feel…off. Headachey, dizzy. We had the lights off and dark, foreboding-type movie on, so it wasn’t until I meandered into the kitchen after some Advil and flipped on the lights that I realized what I was in for. Holy mother of bob. Was I going to have to add “Really Bad Tom Hanks Films” to my list of possible triggers? Having never successfully narrowed it down, I already had Sunday School, Barcelona and Alphabetical Filing on there. Though let’s be real; even with the improved hair, the Tom Hanks one seems to make the most sense.
As far as meltdowns go, I think the pinnacle of the evening came when I was hiding out in the dark bedroom, unable to open my eyes, and realizing with acute panic that our geriatric dog had just had an accident and was in the process of loudly EATING UP the evidence.
I’m back from my first vacation in over two years (minus a three-day weekend here or there), and holy cow, was it wonderful. When I sit down to write a thank you note to my not-in-laws, I’m going to need the help of a thesaurus, because all I’ve got is “awesome. Really, really awesome.” Totally exhausting and awesome.
I’d be tempted to say something about how great it was to have slept in my own bed last night, but frankly, the bed at the Disney resort was about six thousand times more luxurious than ours, got made up every day by someone else AND was decorated daily with animal figures made of bath towels. So, there’s that. Still, it’s nice to be home, struggling to get back into the current of real life. You know, like readjusting to single course meals that end without absurdly decadent desserts. I haven’t actually gotten anywhere near a scale, but I’m positive that a week on the Disney Deluxe Dining Plan has summarily undone eight weeks of being on my best behavior. Oh, how I wish I’d never known the love of salted caramel ice cream.
Before you ask to see ‘em, I didn’t take a single photo on our vacation. Not a one. We were just too focused on Fast Passes and dodging Rascals to do any picture taking. But we did have this nifty little card that let us get our pictures taken by Disney photogs and I expect that any day now, proof of our adventures will come rolling in. I may have worn a tiara to our lunch in Cinderella’s castle. And Cinderella may have told me that I make a perfect princess. God, had I been six years old, my face may have exploded with all the built up glee. Fine. At thirty-one, I still came awfully close.
Actually, I did take one photo. This one. Which will explain why you didn’t hear one word from me last week (despite the fact that I did bring a laptop with me). I have a hunch that filing a claim for this is going to be a nightmare. Thanks, American, for the luggage TLC.
It’s Disney World day! If I can just make it through the next few hours, I’ll be free to turn off work email on my iPhone, grab my bags and my honey and head to the airport for seven whole days of magical goodness. Don’t worry, I’ll be lugging a laptop with me, too so you won’t miss out on being insanely jealous when I have LUNCH WITH CINDERELLA.
Did I mention it’s IN THE CASTLE? Because it is.
Anyway, before I disconnect for a few days, I wanted to share some of this fine, fine hilarity. James Lipton, you give me the giggles. For your edification I present, “Give it a ponder.”
You know, one thing that I don’t say enough (and likely a sentiment that may have been most appropriately expressed last Thursday, but you know me – a day late and a dollar short) is how much I dig you guys. Really. I’m thankful for the gift of being united by the weirdness that is the Interweb. I’m thankful for your comments – supportive and argumentative. And just so you know, I don’t take all this connectedness for granted. It amazes me.
That is all. Now back to your regularly scheduled time wasting.
