This past week was just as the title says.
On Tuesday, I went home for a doctor’s appointment and to vote in the presidential primary. (Side note: I didn’t really decide until almost right before I got there.) That night, I drove over to Jacksonville to visit some old friends and sit in on Fiddler on the Roof rehearsal (my friend is one of the Jewish moms.)
I saw a girl I was in Seussical with last spring, and I smiled and said hello when I walked past her. She looked at me, did a double take, then she said, “Oh my gosh, hey! I didn’t even recognize you.” Then she said this: “You have gained a LOT of weight.”
What the heck? I mean yes, I have gained a lot of weight since last year. And trust me, no one has taken notice of it more nor been more affected by it than me. But honestly? Who says that to someone? Who?
It seriously hurt my feelings, and I have thick skin (and apparently thick everything else, too).
And if I wasn’t having it bad enough…
Friday night I went to dinner at a friend’s loft downtown. We were all hanging out, joking around, and having an overall good time. Of course, me, always needing to be the center of attention, I was telling stories and standing up to act a lot of them out. At one point, I heard someone say something about something being broken. I turned around, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, proceeded to say something else. A few short seconds later, I realized what they were talking about. You can guess what happened next…
That’s right, folks. I broke a chair. Me and my big fat ass broke a dining room chair.
Granted, I realize that the chair was already broken. In fact, my pleasant host for the evening informed me that it had been on its last leg (literally) for a while now, and it wasn’t my fault. However, I did what I normally do when I fall down or am embarrassed about falling.
I just stayed down and feigned pain and suffering.
And then I broke the chair some more in a fit of anger. It felt good. Or at least, better.
In continuing with a great week, my car died. My wonderful (sarcasm) father came down to fix it for me. He got to town really early on Saturday morning and decided we should go for a cup of coffee…at iHop. It’s his favorite (he’s such a classy gentleman).
As I was dining on my short stack and hash browns, my dad told me to “Slow down.”
Slow down??? Slow DOWN????
You would’ve thought I had picked up the plate and was shoveling it in my mouth (I wasn’t, but after he said that, I strongly considered it). I put down my fork and just stared at him. He then said, “You’re not done, are you? I paid a lot of money for that food for you to not eat it.”
Are you freaking kidding me? He later tried to rationalize what he said by saying that I was going to make myself sick. I answered by telling him that I’ve been successfully eating food for about 23 years now, and I think I’ve got it under control. Thank God I have such a loving dad.
And to top it all off, my mom told me that my face looks swollen. Not fat, but swollen. Then she asked if my hands were swollen, too.
I told her that I don’t even know how I’ve managed to use to computer with these giant meathooks I’ve been lugging around.
I hope Monday is better. Note to self: Never eat in public again. Ever.