I have a cold. First day. I'm tired, my throat is slowly getting sorer and sorer as the night wears on and, well, I'm just whiny and pitiful. You know, a real joy to be around.
Anyway, it's a little after 10:00pm and I just got out of the shower. For some reason while I was in there, my last OB appointment before my first and eventually aborted induction attempt kept running through my mind. It was the one where my OB said, "So, are you ready to have this baby" and I stared at him slack-jawed and said, "Today?" in a small and stupid voice.
For the second time since Thomas died I prayed for God to turn back time and take me back to that moment. I'd know what to do this time. I wouldn't let the hospital turn me away because my blood pressure had returned to normal and labour and delivery was overcrowded. I would insist on the induction and I would have Thomas a week before I eventually actually did - a week before the abruption that killed him.
Sorry. I digress.
Anyway, feeling sad and sick, I climbed out of the shower and pulled on my pink pajamas. There's nothing better than flannel pajamas when you're sickly. I decided it would be best to dry my hair. I don't know if my Mother and Grandmother are actually right and you can get pneumonia from sitting around with wet hair, but I'm not pressing my luck. Not after the luck I've had.
I need to digress again. A thousand years ago, back when I was in a Catholic all-girls high school, I once had a nun tell me that I'd get hemorrhoids from sitting outside on a cold cement step. Seriously. She stopped on her way into the school to warn me that I was compromising the health of my anus. I'll never forget that. And HA!!! to her - I've never had hemorrhoids, not even after 9 months of pregnancy and three hours of pushing. Not a one.
Nuns don't know everything after all.
Anyway, back to 2005.
I dried my hair quickly. I didn't condition it or brush it straight - I just blew it dry fast because, quite frankly, my energy was waning. A long day of laying on the couch feeling crappy is surprisingly draining. The result was rather unexpected. Frizzy is a bit of an understatement. I hastily scooped it up into a clip figuring I'd let it down right before I went to sleep.
But the clip didn't help. "Oh God." was what I muttered when I looked into the mirror. Red-faced from the heat of the shower and the hair dryer, snaky gray hairs poking out and slithering in and amongst my precious brown hair, big dark circles and a halo of fine frizz. Beautiful.
And then I farted.
I'm sorry. This post has a fart and an anus in it. My apologies to the more genteel readers.
My Beloved heard the gaseous expulsion and said "Nice", as he always does. I went in to the office to retrieve my laptop and said, "You've got yourself a real winner here."
He laughed but seemed puzzled. I pointed out the frizz, the gray, the general dishevelment and he looked at me with love and said, "I think you look nice."
You know, I think he meant it.
I remember once when we were dating - early years - and he surprised me by coming over late on a Saturday night. He had some family shin dig to go to and, with no plans of my own, I decided to have a spa night. When he dropped by I was wrapped up in a big flannel teddy bear robe without a lick of makeup on and, if I'm not mistaken, giant gym socks with holes in them.
He looked at me then the way he just looked at me now and said softly, "You look like someone's mom" and smiled.
That was the first moment I knew that sexy was in the eye of the beholder.