Squeamish

I had movie theater popcorn and Diet Coke for dinner.  How could something that smells SO GOOD be so damn nauseating? I should have known better.  I did know better, but I was starving.  Hence, dinner.  Yuck.

So I saw “Eastern Promises.”  It was very good, and very, very bloody.  If you must know, I can’t STAND violence.  While everyone else in the theater was laughing their heads off when someone got stabbed in the eye, I was cowering into my jacket sleeve, willing it to be over.  Yeah, I’m a wimp.  Or a bleeding heart, whatever.  I hate seeing people get hurt.  I’ve been known to gasp out loud when someone gets shot on TV.  I am the girliest girly girl ever.

It’s so embarrassing.

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.

When Fire Safety Hurts

My hormones are getting the better of me. After spending much of last night furious at Bateman, then mushy, then crying over a FIRE SAFETY COMMERCIAL, then mushy AGAIN … I mean, seriously. What’s wrong with me?

I’m glad I’m back to mushy though (“fire safety is a sad, serious thing,” Bateman said, making me simultaneously laugh and weep from happiness because ohmygodILOVEhim for making me smile again). I hate being angry at him. Especially because it’s usually baseless.

Baseless, as in: I haven’t gotten my period since June 3. And I’m not pregnant. At least, not according to First Response.

Why am I this late and unconcerned? First, let’s rant for a second about something that doesn’t involve my boyfriend: how unfair is it that I’m that one who gets those freaky migraines with aura, the ones with the blurry vision, and blind spots, and numbness in my left arm that creep me out. The ones that — sob — put me at increased risk of stroke and are listed right there on the label of my beloved birth control pill as a contraindication for estrogen? It’s unfair, I tell you. UNFAIR.

So instead I take something called a mini-pill that doesn’t have estrogen in it. It’s ONLY given to nursing mothers. And me. (I have connections, what can I say.) The thing is, this pill supposed to do this; it’s supposed to make you irregular. This is how I know it’s working (who designed this thing anyway?) But it’s still a little unnerving. How do I differentiate between success and failure when all the signs are exactly the same for both?

There’s a life metaphor in here somewhere, but I’m too hormonal to puzzle it out.