This is kind of morbid but …

Remember when I said I wanted to lose five pounds? Well, I lost those five pounds.

I was too distraught to eat anything more than a handful of Cheerios or a few carrots for dinner on both Monday and Tuesday. I don’t binge when I’m upset, and I’m grateful for that. Instead I lose all interest in food.

This morning I stepped on the scale and — woo hoo — slid right into my skinny jeans. I’m strangely, eerily proud of this fact.

All I can say is that today was better than yesterday. I couldn’t get a biopsy appointment for another month, because they were booked up over the next two weeks, and then I’m in San Francisco. So … it just kind of seems like something far away. In the way-distant future. Like something that could right itself between now and then.

Also, Bateman said he’d come with me.  I’m almost looking forward to it now.  A date at the gynecologist’s.  (He’s a doctor; I’m figuring he’s mature enough to handle spending an hour in a pink and girly waiting room.)

I think I’ll eat tonight.

Decision Point

I have a mantra. I repeat it to myself whenever I’m scared. It goes:

Always choose your happiness over your fear.

I’m trying to tell myself that this is a blip, this biopsy thing. Most likely, it’ll be fine. And if it isn’t fine, then at least it’s easily correctable. In two, five, 10 years from now this will all just be a bad dream.

If I take care of things.

Otherwise, I could be throwing my entire life away — my HAPPY life complete with a great career, and a great family, and great friends, and hell, even great skin — because I’m afraid. And who would choose that? Who chooses fear?

I’m going to have to repeat this mantra a lot over the next day or week or month or so, because I still don’t believe that I need to go for this test. My parents are LIVID that I’ve even consider not going, but Bateman has tried to be the voice of reason. He told me that what I need now is food and sleep (fringe benefit of all this? being completely unable to eat.) And I need support, not a parental meltdown, and eventually I’ll make the right decision. And then he said, “Listening to your dad lecture you about gynecology tests is definitely the worst part of the whole experience.”

For some reason, after six hours of near-continuous crying, THAT was thing that cracked me up.

Tough Luck

Oh and? On top of everything else — on top of being told I’m thisclose to having a stroke, on top of never seeing my boyfriend, on top of getting the goddamn cold shoulder every. single. weekend from his possessive, resentful, immature friends — my pap smear was abnormal.

Fucking great. THIS IS NOT MY MONTH.

Am I the only one who starts crying in the middle of Union Square when told she has to have a biopsy you-know-where? Yeah, so not happening. Precancerous, smushmancerous.

Just my fucking luck.

(I’ll just pause my self-pity party for a second here to say that as I was bawling my eyes out on the subway platform, a very pregnant lady came over and gave me a wad of tissues. “It’ll be OK,” she said softy. And I was so touched — so very touched — and I didn’t know how to thank her. Instead I just boarded a different subway car so that she wouldn’t see that her sweet gift left me crying harder than ever at the kindness of strangers on a New York City subway platform.)

Paging Dr. Bateman

Lately I’ve started repeating a new refrain to Bateman:

Guess who works too much? Guess who never sees her boyfriend?

The answer: Me and You. Suffice it to say, he doesn’t like this game.

But he does work too much. I see my boyfriend a total of 36 hours a week – and that includes two nights when we’re sleeping. From 7 pm Friday night, when he drives over to my apartment, until 6:30 am Sunday morning, when he kisses me goodbye, dressed in scrubs. Sometimes I fall back asleep, but on days like today, I wander around the apartment, where his cologne still lingers.

And I miss him.

Even last night, when it was just the two of us hanging out at our favorite neighborhood bar, I wasn’t happy. In fact, I was downright miserable. Thirty-six hours is not enough. And I don’t care that we used to do it when we were a long distance couple; this year was supposed to be 400% better. And it’s not.

Sometimes I tell myself that I knew what I was getting into when I signed up to date this person. And if we can just keep up this 36-hours-a-week routine, and do it consistently over the next eight months, I’ll be rewarded by something much longer-term and permanent: Happily Ever After. You know, moving in together, planning more vacations, getting engaged, and then – and then – and then –

The Big Picture, so to speak. That’s what I need to focus on.

But it’s a tenuous balance. I’ve always been an instant gratification girl; I hate waiting. Sometimes I just want a real live boyfriend, one I see on a regular basis, and do couple-things with.

So I think that’s why it’s difficult for me to hear Bateman and his friends planning a couple of dudes-only weekends without getting a little possessive of our time together. Don’t get me wrong: I want him to spend time with his friends. I think it’s important. It’s important that he spends time – alone – with his friends. He gets 36 hours of freedom each week, and he should pack as much fun into that time as possible. But as much as I want to be The Good Girlfriend – kiss him breezily and tell him to go have fun – well, when they start cutting in my time with him … my measly 36 hours (which already isn’t enough) … well, then where does that leave me?

Yeah, exactly. Miserable and missing him and questioning whether All This is ever going to be Worth It.

Gym Update

Week two:

Still doing kickboxing.  Still thinking it’s fun.  Still kind of out of sync with the rest of the class. Finally OK with that.

Also, I suck at a class called “Intermediate Step.”  I cannot do this “Intermediate Step.”  It is way over my head.  I just wanted to throw that out there.  For the record.

Leavin’ On a Jet(Blue) Plane

Traveling with a significant other is a huge relationship milestone.  For a few reasons.  For starters, as fun as travel is, it can also be immensely stressful.  When Bateman and I were in Lisbon, for instance, our flight to Barcelona was canceled.  And the discount airline we picked offered us no recourse except to refund our $40 tickets.  Which, of course, was useless, since we had to spend close to $300 EACH to replace them at the last minute.  By the time we landed, we were beyond hungry, beyond tired, emotionally spent, and a few hundred dollars in the hole — not to mention that we had missed out on a day of sightseeing.  And these things happen all the time and can really test the strength of a relationship.

On the flip side, there’s something so intense — so wonderfully intense — about planning this big trip together, picking out museums and restaurants and historical sites, deciding where to stay, and figuring out how to work an international cell phone (not that we used it).  Weighing the pros and cons of different flight schedules and reading guidebooks together on Sunday afternoons.  And, of course, counting down the weeks and days and hours together, and all the can-we-leave-rightthisminute-I-can’t-WAIT-any-longer!s.  And then, afterward, putting together a Flickr album of the two of you in front of, say, the Sagrada Familia, and showing it to your extended family members and all your friends who now can see that you two — or is it You Two — are officially a Serious Item.

Finally, when you’re going someplace you’ve waited your whole life to visit — and spending a small fortune to do it — well, you’re combining what is essentially a huge Life Milestone with a huge Relationship Milestone.  Every memory, every private joke, every time you say “thank you” in Portuguese will be forever linked to this person.

I’m reminded of these things now that Bateman and I are planning a trip to San Francisco.  We’ve both been there before (separately), so it’s not quite as monumental as our last trip.  But I’ve been secretly hoping to recapture some of that Our First European Vacation magic, and this is a small way to do it.

In Which I Use Lots (and Lots) of Parentheses

I just finished a run in Central Park and I feel good. Strong. Fit. Healthy. Like the only thing wrong with me is a sore ankle and a couple of mosquito bites.

The last three days — driving! poker in Atlantic City! winning at poker in Atlantic City! booking my trip to San Franciso! (and convincing Bateman to come along [as he just-so-happens to be off that week]!) — were perfection. I got to fit in a drunken (and yummy) dinner with one of my closest friends, cuddling with my boyfriend before his 24-hours on-call, a trip down to visit my parents (complete with cars, gambling, and a fancy dinner [also, how cute are my parents that this is how we spend quality time together?]), and a run.

Life is back to good again. So I don’t want any of ya worryin’ about me.

In Case You Were Wondering …

I’m through with doctors.  Or at least I’m through with neurologists.  Apparently my headaches have gotten scary-bad, and now the doctor wants me to go for all these additional tests that involve dye being injected into my veins and giving lots and lots of blood.  Lady, there’s NO WAY, I told her.  I think I’d have a stroke just from fear alone.

Of course, the other doctors in my life don’t think the situation is quite so dire.  I mean, do I look like a walking stroke time bomb?  Me?  You can’t see me, but I promise I look 100% NOT like a walking stroke time bomb.  I’m even wearing a cute little sun dress today (yay, losing two pounds this week), and I promise you, cute girls in sun dresses do not have strokes.  It’s like the law or something.

But everyone agrees I should lay off hormones from now on, even the “mini” ones.  The stroke risk is listed right on the information packet, so why chance it?   (Imagine having to discuss your method of birth control with your father, even if he is a doctor.  It was NOT FUN.  Thank you for telling him, Mother.)

This really sucks.  I know I should be concerned about my health and all, but all I feel is bummed that I can’t take the pill.  I even feel guilty, like I let Bateman down in some way.  Like maybe he should find another girlfriend who doesn’t have the most bizarre health problems on the planet.  Priorities in order?   Check.

Anyway, it’s hard to be upset and, you know, worry about things, when I just found that I’m going to San Francisco for a week next month.  San Fransciso happens to be one of my favorite cities in the US.  I love it so much I want to pick it up, squeeze it, and twirl it around.  This is the best news I’ve gotten … in awhile.  (I just knew this job was going to be fun.)  And for someone who had a truly awful day yesterday, well, let’s just say I’m grateful for some unexpected good cheer.

Motivation

I used to pride myself on my willpower. I have amazing willpower. If I say I’m only going to eat 1200 calories a day, I only eat 1200 calories a day — not 1300, not even 1250, 1200. (Tangent: High School Me did very well on 1200 calories. Adult Me, however, knows there’s more to life than Boca Burgers, apples, and plain pasta without sauce. But the point holds.) I’m the same way about exercise too; before I got this new job, I used to go to the gym religiously even though I hated it.

That’s why these five (YES, we’re up to FIVE now) extra pounds have been so horrifying. Make that HORRIFYING. What happened to my cute little figure? Where did it go?

I know some of this is water weight; my hormones are acting up again. And I know what I need to do to get back to my old self right-quick. It shouldn’t take more than a month or so. I already took my first kickboxing class tonight (and was definitely definitely the girl punching right when everyone else was punching left. Yep, that’s me alright. Spastic.) But still, it’s a dose of humility, that’s for sure.

(P.S. You know what’s fun?  Kickboxing.  Kickboxing is fun.  You know what sucks?  Neurologists.  Neurologists suck.  You know what keeps me going?  Getting that appointment over and done with in 12 hours.  12 hours and done.)

Being a Girl

I was right-proud of myself for getting the first dose of the HPV vaccine Gardasil today. (My doctor said that her practice has been giving it out — and I quote — “like candy.”) It’s ironic, but the ob-gyn is my favorite of all doctors (“way better than the dentist,” I’ve been known to say.) Because going there makes me feel like an adult … because I’m in control … because I’m there because I want something (the Pill, Gardasil, what-have-you) and not because my brain might explore at any second (ka-BOOM). Also, my doctor is adorable. When I told her about Bateman, she said, “If you put up with him all through medical school, then he better marry you.” (Yeah, I tell everyone about Bateman. I can’t help it. I’m such a name-dropper, and more than that, I’m proud of him. He’s like my greatest accomplishment ever. Hey, now, I’m kidding …. kidding!)

As much as I’m all “hehe, yay, girl power (squeal!)” tonight, I have to say that being a girl is definitely the suckier of the two gender options. I mean, my arm hurts tonight — all because I’m trying to prevent a disease my boyfriend will never have to worry about. To say nothing about all the other stuff women have to deal with throughout their lives. I’ve even griped to Bateman that being a girl is nothing but “a lifetime of constant pain and misery.” And you know what? He paid for breakfast that day. It was the least he could do. You know, for the misery.