It seems fitting that a week before my thirtieth birthday I would begin turning into a zombie. Living flesh starts to decay, grace and poise are replaced with mindless stumbling, and a craving for buttery gray matter starts tugging at your tummy. (Just in case you were worried, I haven't gotten to that final symptom yet. Give me a few weeks though. Y'all 'll have to start wearing anti-brain-eater-helmets. ... or start carrying baseball bats everywhere.)
I bit my lip two weeks ago. I assume this is the first stage of the zombie transformation: autocannibalism. Apparently, a dose of poison entered my system from this minor wound, and it has developed into some kind of lesion in my mouth. (Aren't you glad, when you hopped out of bed this morning, you decided to read my blog. Cannibalism and mouth lesions in the same post. Who's a lucky reader? That's right: it's YOU!) Now, speaking is an agony, eating is unthinkable, and having my daughter practice her facial landmarks with me as her model is enough to make a grown women whimper. (EYE! the little girl declares, poking one dirty little digit into my eye. EAR she shrieks, jamming the same finger far enough into my ear to scratch new philosophy out of my brain. MOUTH! she squeals with delight , forcing my mouth open with her finger and then attempting to punch her entire fist into my mouth. Mommy's so proud. Could Hannah go grab the lidocaine for mommy please?)
I slept wrong. (This is not my fault. I was having a retreat nightmare. The women's retreat is from a Friday afternoon to a Sunday morning. In the dream, we had to move out of our location to another house on Saturday. We had to move. We were being attacked. By dinosaurs. Which was sadly, less of an issue than the bedbugs last year.) When I awoke, My neck was locked in a sideways crook, reminiscent of the old zombie, valley-girl, head tilt. The neck pain also induced groaning, which was distinctly zombie-esque in nature.
At last weeks softball game, my sister-in-law and I were almost completely consumed my mosquitoes. (Which I understand in her case, with my exceptional sister-in-law being sweet as honey, she must be a delicious treat for any bug. However, in my case, all I can imagine is the 'special' mosquitoes, who prefer asparagus and artichoke flavored blood, must have sipped me to death.) There was quite a bit of blood loss. And now I have 57 beautiful little red welts peppering my skin. It's very undead-like.
As Justin is studying for his exit exam, I called my mother to see if I could bring over the loud boy and his tornado sister. The husband slunk into the room as I chatted away. He wrapped his arms around my waist. This is not an uncommon occurrence. We have this sick obsession with making the other person laugh, blush, or be utterly awkward while on the phone with their relations, or key church personnel. I was successfully ignoring him, which annoyed the husband greatly. He hauled me back, so I was sitting on his lap on the bed. I continued talking unfazed. (We've been playing this twisted game for a long time; it takes pyrotechnics to break my concentration.) My mother was telling me about their plan to adventure off to Winco for groceries, which was riveting. With a heave (that I imagine was quite more forceful than if he had been throwing around a 108 or slightly more girl), Justin flopped himself back on the bed, dragging me with him, he rolled me to one side and then threw me across the bed.
This did interrupt my flow of conversation (as being tossed like a rag doll in a dryer tends to do), so I recovered my phone quickly, bolted upright to finish my talk with my mother, and then kill my beloved. Suddenly our room started spinning more than usual. I laid back down quickly. Sensing something was wrong Justin mercifully stopped Hulk-smashing me. I did my best to listen to my mother's post office woes without throwing up my breakfast everywhere. I politely said my goodbyes, hung up, and buried my head in our comforter with a groan. The second attempt at sitting up fared no better. The room was spinning around me... or I was spinning around the room, which I am assured are different sensations (and wasn't it a sad little lab rat that had to discover that). Things began to settle, and Justin asked if I could stand. I unfolded my legs, slid off the bed, and... fell into his night table.
So with that, my husband successfully sloshed my ear crystals, again, re-igniting benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. Which I think means he won the game, but simultaneously lost him any leverage in any decision over the next week. Because, while submissive, I'm also just plain mean.
While the calendar declares that I will not be thirty for ten more days, my body has decided it is time to break down. I will be a full on undead, brain-eater by Christmas.
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