Today, I called the psychic and made an appointment for myself and Carrie on Saturday, March 12th. Check.
Then I called the vet and scheduled checkups for all four rabbits this Thursday morning. Check.
That was enough phone productivity for one day, which means I’m still holding off on finding an eye doctor that will take my insurance. I suppose I could walk into the Sears optometry department, where I already know I’m covered, and see if they have time for an instant-gratification appointment tomorrow. Walking into places is much easier for me than calling them.
But some headway was made in the responsibility department, and I even ate real food for breakfast (apples and yogurt, you know, instead of a cookie).
I alluded yesterday to the fact that I had to give up my shift at work today, to do a favor for a friend. I was actually doing a favor for a friend’s mom, a hairdresser, who had a working interview at a new salon this afternoon. And, I don’t mean to brag, but I have, like, doll’s hair: perfectly straight, and shiny, and thick, and healthy.
So, long story short, she needed a model, and I needed a haircut. Symbiosis.
The salon owner, a petite, bubbly 30-something, seemed eager to help my friend’s mom succeed, which made the whole situation a lot less awkward for all of us. At one point, the owner was explaining the difference between two of the fancy conditioning treatments used in her salon: one was for chemically damaged hair, and would “slam the hair cuticles down,” while the other was for hair that’s only been mechanically damaged, and would “close them more gently.”
The owner picked up a handful of my hair and examined it. “I don’t think she needs to be slammed down,” she began, then turned bright red as she realized what she’d just said.
We all laughed, of course, as though we were all in on some joke about my sex life. And I realized: it’s been a while since I explored my sex life here, or even really thought about it for myself.
When I started this blog, I was having no sex. I was hormonally altered by my IUD, and probably still depressed and associating sex with my pregnancy, miscarriage, and depression. The lack of sex was one of my biggest complaints, because it was one of the most noticeable ways I was not up to par with my pre-miscarriage self. Also, it made Doug unhappy, and I don’t like doing that.
Now, things are better. We tried the sex-every-day shtick for a few weeks at the start of the year, and even when we realized that wasn’t going to work for us at this time, it’s not like the beautiful tin of condoms on our nightstand is just gathering dust.
Since losing the IUD, I feel much more present in my body, sexually. I’ve been succumbing to more of Doug’s advances, and even making a few of my own – although I’m still shy, so my advances are still a lot more subtle than his are. There are even some nights when he goes to bed first, and I climb in thinking, “Wait, weren’t we going to have sex tonight?”
Oh, and?! I actually enjoy it when we do. Like, my body knows how to get turned on, and I actually respond to being touched again. It’s kind of a big deal.
So I guess that salon owner was right: I don’t need to be slammed down. I can, finally, after all these years, lie down willingly.
Oh, and because I know you’ll ask: