As it turns out, my righteous case of writers block is still here and going strong pretty much, but I have managed to muster out a sad story of lameocity and woe from my pain. Today I did two things that were very good for me, but oh so very out of characteristic and included me wincing and wishing for a fleeting second that I used profanities. (please don't be like me) For those of you who are my friends on facebook, you will already know about all of this, but what can I say - I already told you I had writers block.
I went to the dentist. Yeah, I know to you that doesn't really sound like a big deal, but to me it was huge. Mammoth. Epic even. I'm talking "a new Star Wars movie" epic. You see, I am a self-diagnosed sufferer of Dental Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. So much so that, barring a visit for pain with a cracked tooth 5 years ago that eventually led to an ill fitting crown and more trauma, today was essentially my first cleaning and checkup in more than 10 years. Please feel free to judge away. I don't care. I have a mental health condition, DPTSD, and I cannot help it. It all began many years ago with a little girl and a giant chin. It's true. I hit puberty and that joker shot out like Jay Leno wearing a jet pack. Pair that with some gnarly looking teeth, and we're talking six years of braces, two preliminary dental surgeries, and one broken and realigned jaw with a mouth wired shut for six weeks. I know you would never know it now from looking at me and my stunning beauty, but it was whack man. Whack. Then when I was finally forced back to the dentist with a cracked up tooth, there was the whole "crown episode of 2007" that took ten visits and a little bit of screaming. I am damaged. I am broken. I hate the dentist.
My mother nags. My mother fusses. My mother wears me out. My mother footed the bill for all of the afore mentioned dental work, so now my mother cannot bear the fact that I am content to let my teeth rot out of my head like a professional meth addict rather than visit a trained dental professional. So today, I humored my mother and I went to the dentist. I chose him because he was recommended to be kind and non-judgemental, and because he gives the gas whether your insurance pays for it or not. It's "complimentary". I asked for it in the parking lot just so I could get through the front door. Unfortunately they aren't quite that obliging, but they were terribly nice otherwise. Luckily I lived and am scheduled to go back again. No one get too excited, though. I make no promises. Baby steps people.
Another thing I did today which was not good for me at all, was too finish off the gargantuan Hershey's kiss that I had given Super G for valentine's day. The one he gnawed on for a while and then decided it was too much work so he layed it down and said, "that's enough. I don't want to get fat anyway". So I ate the rest of it. (don't be like me)
Which brings me to my next point of what I did good for me today. I exercised. And not just any old plain jane exercise. I did P90X. I know I'm behind the times and all of you did it last year and now you're on to something else. But I didn't. I had it last year, but I didn't do it. Mostly because Aaron is the one that wanted to do it, so he ordered it, and then two days before it arrived in the mail he fell out of the attic while putting up the 87 boxes of Christmas paraphernalia and ripped up things all over the inside of his body. It was whack man. Whack. So we didn't do it. But now we are. We've done two videos - "chest and back" and "plyometrics". One is an hour of pushups and one is an hour of jumping. I currently cannot put on deoderant because I cannot reach either arm to the opposite side of my body, and I am sleeping in my tennis shoes tonight because my legs become so jiggly when I bend over that I fall down. Then my back is too sore to lean over and untie the double knots - hence the sleeping in the Reeboks. On the floor. (don't be like me)
It's funny how just typing this made me think back to a story that's only funny to me (but I'm totally going to tell it to you poor suckers anyway). You know how I was talking about the chin earlier and how I am always talking about the love of cadbury eggs (which are out now btw!) and the resulting "no pants that fit"? Well one afternoon while in college, Aaron and I were talking about "when we get married" and he decide it would be funny if we both drew a picture of what we thought our kids will look like. He drew a boy, and I drew a girl. And we used every terrible feature that either one of us have, multiplied by 100. You should have seen those jokers. Both fictional kids were 7 feet tall, with a unibrow, a nose wide enough to fly a paper airplane up, "booty lips", and "the gimpy toothed chin situation". Then they had a ginormous rear end, tree trunk thighs and weird feet. Plus there was some acne and several cowlicks. And sticky-outy ears. And stubby hands. Did I mention the large buttox? Anyway, this image has stuck with me all these years, so if you have ever heard me talk about crying when I found out I was pregnant with a girl - it was for many reasons. Especially the fact that her life was going to be extra hard looking like that. But it turns out so far that no one has signs of a giant chin (even though bless Super G's little heart his teeth are already gimpy), there's not that many cowlicks at our house, and they all seem to have the good sense to quit eating the giant Hershey's kiss before they develop type 2 diabetes at age 8.
And just to prove their cuteness against all odds, I thought I would throw in some pictures that I came across tonight that I haven't seen in a while.