Am I exaggerating? Sure. Still, here is a picture of my Epipen. In case life decides it wants to try and kill me. All I have to do is come into contact with a Sulfa drug, possibly be stung by a bee, or perhaps ingest a fennel seed.
I think the most frightening part of having my Epipen is how gun-ho my husband seems to be about using it. From the moment my allergist described how to use said injection, the hubby was practically jumping up and down in excitement. He has been ready to stick a needle deep into one of my muscles for years now. He has taken it upon himself to be the declared giver of said medicine. At any time, any place. For some unknown reason, he has appointed himself Epipen extraordinaire. Even though he has certainly never given anyone any type of shot (unlike me, the former nurse). Sigh.
Anyway, I might have been happy to let him cause me great needle-related pain if it meant I could get out of our big date. All week I've been dreading tonight. The hubby's big fancy smancy work dinner is at a type of restaurant we have never frequented. I'm a Steak N Shake kind of girl. We had fancy meals on our honeymoon... But they were in our hotel room. The Bellagio is no Red Roof Inn, but I fear it doesn't count if I don't have to juggle twenty different forks in front of other people.
I know one has nothing to do with the other, but the fact that I've already epically failed at winning over his family keeps coming into my mind. You know, since I'm pretty sure he's still "forbidden" to be married to me. At the same time, the rational part of me knows they never really tried to get to know me, so I don't take it so personally these days. Finally meeting the people he spends his work days with is weighing heavy on me. What if they realize the second I walk into the room just how much better he could have done? I turn into a tween again, all "They're going to hate me!" and staying in bed, under the covers, surrounded by the cats and dog until noon.
Why did I agree to this? I'm not a social person. I'm a stay at home housewife who likes her little house and her brood of pets and her husband. I've always been quiet, especially around people I don't know. It's amazing I found my husband in the first place and managed to give him a front row seat to the real me. Both amazing and admittedly slightly sad and pathetic, since he then gets to see me on days like this. There's no elaborate other me that can put on my clothes and trick him into thinking I am a confident, lovely lady on his arm. He gets Happy Wife in panic mode.
The wide eyed horrified girl who is sure she's going to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing. The one who is sure that everyone at the table is going to be thinking, "THIS is who he ended up with? This is the girl? Really?"
It doesn't help that we're going to have a meal. I have food allergies that can be rather daunting. Horrifying. Nightmare inducing. It doesn't help that we can't seem to find the source of the allergies other than that they happen when we eat out.
Should I wear a turtleneck to hide any reaction I may have? My neck likes to look all pandemic-like if I have a bad situation happening.
I get to bring a purse full of Benadryl along with said Epipen. I mean, sexy right? Are they going to search me? Do fancy restaurants have their version of the TSA?
I was up for all of 7 minutes when the hubby came home from work. I immediately got back in bed and fussed.
"How many people will be there? A hundred?" I then made cranky noises that did not remotely resemble actual words although I said them with a cadence like they were still part of the conversation. Sort of like Charlie Brown's teacher if she was really upset.
"Twenty, at most," he replied.
"So, a thousand... A million?" I sighed loudly. Twice.
He just laughed at me and said, "Yes, Dear, there are going to be a million people there."
I told him I need to be 20 pounds thinner before going out of the house ever again.
Then, I thought about how the one thing I have kept from my youth is acne. Hooray. *Eye rolls* My 1 am tweezer attack on my eyebrows also did my help my face today. I managed to not say this out loud.
I thought about all the questions. The normal ones.
"So what do you do?"
"When are you two going to start having kids?"
"How did you two meet again?"
Um... Nothing, never, and online. I have no goals or ambition, want to get "the coils" as I call them, and I seduced him on the Internet.
And the chorus will all be crickets. Tumbleweeds will roll past our table. I may hear a sad ghost town western soundtrack in my head.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
What am I supposed to say? I'm technically still a licensed nurse and just leave out that I intend to never go back into the nursing field? That I spend all day eating Cheetos and watching soap operas?
Okay, so I haven't had Cheetos in years and I don't watch soap operas, but sometimes my life is comparable to that. This past Wednesday, I spent a whole day catching up on Glee and drinking equal parts hot chocolate and marshmallows.
I don't think telling everyone that I take care of our TWELVE special needs cats and the world's most insane dog is a viable option. That sounds worse than telling them what I do on the days when I do leave the house. Hi, sometime last week I power shopped at all 4 local Marshalls and TJ Maxx stores and then made a supper where Velveeta was the main ingredient and chicken and broccoli had very small supporting cast member roles.
I am FREAKING OUT. What am I going to wear? What am I going to say? I have issues speaking English, my ONLY language, in front of others all the time and just in general half the time. AND I HAVE A BACHELOR'S DEGREE IN ENGLISH.
My husband keeps telling me it will be fun. That he 100% wants me to go and is sure it will be great.
Know what I'm sure of? That I don't own anything that makes me look thin and that the dog is going to not only break into the kitty room and eat all their food while we're gone, but she's also going to open all the Christmas presents. I better take pictures of all the decorations because they're all going to be down when we get home.
No comments:
Post a Comment