Singing a new tune that’s possibly too personal
We spent the last few days in Music City. We ate barbecue, took in the downtown Nashville sites and even visited a popular antique store made famous on American Pickers. Then fun sorta bit the dust. Today my head is swimming with the beginning line to a Tammy Wynette song.
“Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman … ”
She’s right. Sometimes it is hard to be a woman, and when all the lady parts stop working in perfect harmony, yikes! Ain’t nobody got time for that. Last night I was lamenting my troubles, picturing worse-case scenarios and selfishly saying things like, “but I don’t get sick, I’m too busy to be ill” — because the world revolves around the state of my health, you know — when my loving husband, who had a heart attack at 34, quietly inserted, “So you think you’re immune? That you can command yourself healthy and it will be so?” I would never have thought to put it that way, but I suppose I do determine to be invincible — that’s what mother’s do, right? So I shook my head yes. He fired back, “Well buck up, Buttercup and welcome to the real world.”
Perhaps he underestimates my powers of positive thinking … ?
No, probably not. I did my best to wish away maladies and I still appeared at the doctor’s office bright and early this morning feeling weary, worn and quite willing to beg for help. My 40-year-old uterus is very contrary and chose to have a temper tantrum while I was sightseeing somewhere between Broadway and Music Row. I realize we’ve probably never met or maybe we have and you feel this is entirely too much information. Thing is, we’ve all spent some time inside a uterus. We shouldn’t be shy about discussing its eccentricities, right? Amen.
Long, uncomfortable story short, our trip to Tennessee ended in a frantic journey north so I could seek medical attention. Yes, I’m certain there are doctors down South but even Dorothy knew there’s no place like home. We made it and I went to the doctor. And while the nice lady studiously scanned my internal anatomy I had an internal conversation with myself over what color to paint the living room. My mind wanders, see — it’s a defense mechanism. I think they call it escapism. You should try it sometime! It works wonders when trying to ignore a toddler tantrum or a boring lecture or a nine-hour drive home from a mother-daughter vacation that was rudely interrupted by malfunctioning mommy machinery.
As it turns out, my internal anatomy is healthy though a bit overzealous. I’m now taking medicine that should get things back in working order. And I have to tell you, I’m intrigued. The data sheet says, “This medication is similar to a natural substance made by the body … it may result in an increase in your sense of well-being and your physical ability … it may increase appetite.” Apparently, this wonder drug will not only solve my physical problems (fingers crossed!), it will also provide me with super powers and make me fat — but I’ll feel good so it won’t matter. Forget Tammy Wynette, I’m singin’ a new tune now. It goes something like, “If you’re happy and you know it eat a cupcake!”
Just kidding — except for the part about increased physical abilities. Super powers would be spectacular. I could single-handedly rebuild the stone retaining wall … fix the barn roof … leap tall buildings in a single bound … the possibilities are endless! Or, maybe I could just pause to thank God and my lucky stars for good health, truly — and settle for painting the living room, posting photos I hope you’ll enjoy, and loving the life I’ve been blessed to live. Yeah. That sounds about right.
But I’ll for sure let you know if I turn into Superwoman.