After a rough Friday (up for 22 hours straight--don't ask), Saturday started out pretty roughly. The following scenario may sound like chemicals were involved, but seriously this is only to do with being in my mid-thirties and unable to cope with not enough sleep.
I had a lie in until 10:30 and stayed in my pjs until 2. This is not normal behavior for me. Even in my exhausted state, I realized that I was a pink-quilted bed jacket and an insulin injection away from being Sunny von Bulow. To add to my pukey-feeling lethargy, breakfast had been two bites of cold casserole straight from the crock pot, which I could barely lift to get back into the fridge. This was getting grim.
It only got worse when I found myself on the couch watching The Flying Nun. Just viewing her be-robed sky acrobatics gave me motion sickness. It was bright outside, and I wanted to put on sunglasses.
Sunglasses. Indoors. I pulled the blinds. I sat there in my dark, aggressively air-conditioned flat.
That's when it happened. An advert came on the television, featuring a woman not so much older than I. She started chatting about the high cost of health care and medical supplies. Then she got to the crux of the commercial by unloading her secret shame. She had been reusing her catheters.
Usually the advertising that bombards my senses does so on a weeknight during programs about hip, smarty gay lawyers or hip, smarty gay show choir members. The products are something like paper-thin one dollar flip-flops from Old Navy or hybrid fruit drinks from McDonald's which could be classified as diabetes in a cup. You know, high quality, health promoting items that are brightly colored and and dangled in my face by attractive out-of-work actors. Normal stuff! For normal people!
But ad executives know that anyone watching telly on a sunny June weekend afternoon are penniless and can't make it to the bathroom. People watching The Flying Nun. People like me.
My eyes went as big as dinner plates, or hubcaps, or Amanda Seyfried's eyes. I sprang to action. Showered with a fury. Every pore felt violated by pomegranate and mango. I picked out the cutest outfit that was left on a hanger (Must do laundry--dammit! Together people who are up and not reusing catheters have their laundry done) and punctuated it with irreverent, dirty, purple Converse sneakers...shoes that ALIVE people wear.
Out I went, and lapped my neighborhood a few million times, I had that much energy. I saw two LDS mishies. In my mind I french kissed both of them and donated my next paycheck to the Relief Society, but in reality just smiled and waved. Still good.
No more will I let myself be lulled into a coma by fictionalized popery and my own lack of planning and poor diet. Visions of a soiled-catheter-future had set me free.
A storm rolled in, and it splits this story in two. Next time I end up seated back in the dark and in aggressive air conditioning, but this time I smell good and am in public. This part was more von Bulow, but the next part is more Magneto.