A thing I learned this weekend: A charley horse cramp is not nearly as awful after experiencing labor contractions as it is before labor. Even Bu was impressed with my zen-like approach to waiting for the pain to end. Not that charley horses don't still suck.
As a matter of fact, the tooth was resplendent at seven a.m. following six and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep. The night of bliss proved that even the moodiest hormonally charged bad day of cranky badness can be made all better by a double strong Tension Tamer Tea, a cuddly husband, and streaming video of heroes on a laptop in bed.
The badness of my day was all in my head. I'm owning my bitchiness. I was the one who decided that, even though I am usually passionately opposed to removing my body hair, I would wax my legs and be Glamorous. Also, I would borrow my best friend's classic black dress-up outfit, including heels, and I would be Sophisticated. I would Do My Eyes and also be Sexy. I would then wow my coworkers, board members, and clinic supporters with my ability to Cinderella myself from funky-messy assistant girl to Put Together Foxy Mama at our Oscars Party. (Bu & I take red carpet photos of guests each year.)
Not so much. I forgot my wallet when I scrambled to the store for brunch items, and had to put away all the stuff WIC vouchers don't cover. Then it was too late to make it back & cook & get the Birdie to the grandies'. Later, the leg waxing began, in a messy and annoying way, and I spilled warm wax all over the bathroom. Cleaned that up, and met souster at the door to retrieve my outfit. Quick shower & make-up. Right. OK, mascara in eye- wash off, reapply. Stings, watering, ouch. On to wardrobe. Only the outfit doesn't fit, and the heels are lethal. They are several inches too high for any human being to walk in and they are so pointy-toes I have a toe cramp just imagining them. So I throw on the dressiest black dress I have- short sleeved very simple. My only dress shoes are ballet flats with bows. They are cute bows, and are adorable- with jeans. As a whole, my ensemble looks like a 12 year old girl at a funeral. My panty hose have no runs- at least there's that. So we go.
The printer won't work with our laptop so Bu has to run home to get drivers for the hardware. Meanwhile I have discovered that my hose are too big and they literally roll down under my butt whenever I walk four steps. So I'm tugging at my ass every few seconds trying to hike 'em back up. I'm an anxious mess by this time, and think I'd love a glass of wine. Only it's a cash bar and if we spend any money we'll overdraw our account. (Ha! Silly me- we did that anyway buying frivolous gasoline.)
The event was wonderful, however. We made roughly twice as much as last year for the clinic. The turn out was amazing. I learned that it's possible to pump in a large bathroom stall in bra and panty hose and not let any of the bottles touch anything:) The whole night I was seeing a scene from The Secret where a woman has a Bad Day which is the result of her telling herself, "It is a Bad Day," and I'd tell myself to shake it off, but I couldn't muster up the conviction to radiate positivity with my hose rolled up under my booty and bunching around my adolescent shoes.