Got tested yesterday morning and it’s the less nasty strain B. Luckily I have Nurse Faisal here to weight me down – er – wait on me.
Ha! If only.
Mommying doesn’t stop just because of the flu. I felt decent enough to take Pey to an 8 am class this morning then a movie this afternoon. But now I’m done and in bed at 7:30, so it’s not like I’m immune to its effects. I’ve just been so much sicker.
Jesus, in 2016 I’d already had two fevers by now and been completely laid out. I’m counting my lucky stars this go around.
I got sick in less than 24 hours. I hope to god it isn’t the flu. I’ll find out this morning. Cross your fingers for me.
And since my phone is dead and I haven’t dealt with the photo issue yet I’m posting the first boob pic I had in my library which was only backed up in September despite my best attempts to backup three weeks ago.
This posting every day thing is kind of hilarious. Quite the “day in the life of…” sort of thing.
Well, last night at a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner with my parents and my child I sneezed and sniffled my way through dinner thinking it was only allergies. I woke up this morning knowing it was much more than that.
I dragged my ass out of bed and took Pey to school, came home and went right back to bed. My ex texted about the loaner phone he’d left and I realized I needed it to call the doctor. It took me 3 hours to get it able to make a call. Fucking technology.
I made an appointment for tonight at 7:10, fucked around with the phone for a couple more hours, had a conference call at 1, napped some more then did the school, chiro, and Apple Genius run.
The chiro ran late, which made me miss my Genius appointment, which had me stuck at the mall an extra 30 minutes. While I was waiting my turn the clinic called to tell me my doctor had gotten sick and couldn’t see me. So now I have an appointment in the morning.
Found out my phone is dead-dead, not just fixable-dead, and ran out of the mall late to Pey’s extracurricular activity which meant changing – and eating a burger – in the car before we got to our destination.
Ran back home, rested for a couple of hours and did the kid pick up run only to find out my poor baby was in a foul ass mood so I had a sour-faced child yelling at me as shower, homework, and bed came upon us.
And now I’m doing February Photo Fest and setting up Boobday. I feel like a ghost and a rock star.
I’m also giving myself a gold star because sometimes us adults need one.
Around 11 pm last night I lay in bed looking at my Hy email. I had some business to attend, clicked a link to download a required app, and *POOF* the screen went blueish-black.
I clicked a button or two, tried to reset it. Ok… hard reset then. Ooh! Ok, white screen with the black apple, here we go! Nope. Blueish-black screen again.Goddamnit.
My phone had never done this before and it had given no warning. I opened my laptop and started Googling and troubleshooted until 2:30 in the morning.
Multiple hard reset/reboots/restarts/rewhatevers later and still nothing.
I got up and set the digital clock on my dresser for 6:01 am and tried to calm my whirring mind. How would anyone get a hold of me? How would I do my job? I texted my mom and sister, but because mom is on a stupid Samsung still from her political protest of Tim Cook donating money to some Republican back in 2016, the texts kept getting rejected.
I iMessaged my sister instead and asked her to tell mom my situation in the morning, opened Netflix, and clicked on Chopped. One round in to the episode I noticed my battery was low.
I got up again, my eyes burning with fatigue, and rummaged in my computer bag. Fuck. I’d left the power cord at the office. I distinctly remember thinking, “I won’t be on my computer much tonight,” and leaving it behind. What an idiot I was.
I shuffled back to bed, tucked the body pillow between my thighs and hazily watched the chefs try to create something edible with beef kidneys, pickled cockerels, papaya, and beets. The battery died the very moment the 3 chefs threw their hands up in the air as time ran out.
“Ran out,” indeed.
How much more of a reminder did I need at how dependent I was on my devices??
So this morning I awoke to NPR Morning Edition’s Rachel Martin and David Greene (who I have just discovered is disturbingly hot) and clawed my way out from under my pillowy comforter.
I iMessaged my ex and some other iPhone friends with whom I keep regular contact (I’m looking at you, Ann) and a couple Galaxy users, but they were kicked back just like my mom’s confirming the limitations of my current situation.
In my frustration and worry in the wee hours of this Valentine’s Day about how I’d maintain contact to the roiling hive that is social media I was struck by just how tenuous those connections are. I have some people in my life whom I speak with on a very regular basis that I can only reach through my phone – Instagram DMs, KIK, Snapchat – and I have no easy way of notifying them (though I did with two ladies lest they think I died because that’s how consistent our connections are via social media).
Then I worried about February Photo Fest. How would I post the pics I’d taken without access to my phone?? VSCO Cam, my primary editing app, hosts 2 dozen pics I hadn’t yet downloaded to my library. How will I get to them? I don’t remember what my password is and I never “signed up” with them. All my passwords are kept on a Note… on my phone.
This whole thing will hopefully have a happy ending because I recently backed everything up on my laptop. The Note will be restored, my photos, all the Galaxy and Android texts sent my way while I was unplugged. Whatever else I’m not even considering right now that I may be missing because of lack of access.
I still haven’t heard from my mother about the message my sister sent her this morning, but I am going to rely on her extensive life experience not relying on a smart phone to show up on time tonight. Our fancy Valentine’s Day dinner at a downtown restaurant is important!
My exhusband has magnanimously offered me his backup phone while I await my appointment at the Genius Bar tomorrow afternoon, so all too soon I’ll have a little skeleton crew phone back. I kinda wish I could just burn it and rely on a landline again like it was 1995.
However, it’s 20-fucking-18 and I have responsibilities to keep so, luckily for me, I had already sent myself one extra photo I picked just for February Photo Fest.
This week has been a strange one for me personally. The pic I posted on Monday caused me some emotional fallout I wasn’t expecting and heightened my sensitivity to an old post I read yesterday. I boohooed in public. Very fun, let me assure you. But the show must go on…
Therefore, I have given today’s pic careful consideration. It was taken just two or three days after the other one. Same woman, same window, same body. But what’s different is my feeling about it. I kinda love it.
My hair, the lace detail, the trails of silvery stretch marks on my hip and breast. Why is this pic better than the other one?? I can’t explain it, but I suppose it’s like asking why one prefers Van Gogh over Monet. Why does anyone have a preference? It’s a combination of mood, expectations, cultural background, and a million other little things that go into a feeling.
So, here I am back at it, seeing myself through a different lens and finding the voice inside my head so much kinder and patient. I hope my struggles over confidence connect with at least one person. You are definitely not alone.
I cried at the reminders of my desirability. I cried at the memories of the dinner party, Downstairs Neighbor who’s long since disappeared from my life. I cried at the connection, the real mother fucking connection, that I shared with The Neighbor. I cried because it was so so sad to see how contorted I had become to make it work with him. And I cried because I have absolutely none of that beauty in my life anymore. Not like that, I don’t; I live on scraps and stolen moments.
I feel hideous and undesirable. That pic I posted the other day is one of the most awful things I’ve ever shared about myself and has given that wicked inner voice of mine a platform from which to scream at me about my ugliness, my oldness, my fatness. My zero-ness.
I don’t use PhotoShop on my images, but I clearly put my best foot forward with a good pose and some filters. Baring what I fear to be the ugly truth about myself has peeled back my skin. It’s fucking horrible.
I have avoided all the dizzingly beautiful responses because it’s too painful to address; I know that what everyone has said is true, but it feels so impossibly fantastical that my runaway brain has shut it all down.
I know I am more than my looks.
I know that I am more than my body.
I know that I am worthy, wonderful, capable and lovable.
I know that if this were someone else I would find it a breathtaking image of beauty and reality.
I know all of this, but tell that to the sad, lonely, rejected little Hy inside of me that tries to make sense of her solitude, loneliness, and abject rejection. She wants to point at that flabby body and ridicule it, slash at it with razors, dehumanize it.
If it’s because of my body then it makes me feel a little more in control. I can “fix” that, you see?? It’s separate, solvable.
I know the logic is faulty and ridiculous and reaching: juvenile, but it’s my go-to line of thinking when I am strung out and spinning emotionally. Reading that old post sucker punched me on so many levels I can barely breathe. I’m still gasping for air.
I put on a good show for you all. I share my body online in order to see myself through others’ eyes, to see my own beauty – it’s what Boobday is all about – but here I am admitting that I have yet to master my own cruel inner voice when the stars align just so. I feel fragile. Please forgive me for that; I wish I were stronger.
I am admired by so many from afar, lusted after, admired, loved. I don’t know what my life would be like with the absence of so much beauty and acceptance – it’s a priceless gift which makes me weep with happiness. I just wish I could make it manifest in real life, here on the ground in the city that’s too cool for itself. Next to me and for real. For always.