Touche (imagine that word with the accent mark)

Okay, so a million things are happening in my brain right now. I have the perfect post for tonight, and I've known all afternoon what I wanted to title tonight's story, but then I logged in and saw that I've now reached over 10,000 views and I'm flipping OUT, and I'm also having to Google in another tab how to put the accent mark over the word touché. Which totally makes me a 'douche'. (<----- Keyboard totally autocorrected the touché for me, but all other words that have accent marks are apparently not good enough. How dare they!)

 

The title for this post is just one word: touché. However, in the section where I have to type the title, it won't autocorrect the accent mark, hence the title I had to use. Moving on. I'm over my snit.

 

This past Saturday, Mike and I were going out of town for dinner. Per usual, I started getting ready an hour and a half before we were supposed to leave. Needless to say, An hour and forty-five minutes after the time I started getting ready, I was walking out the door. Only to find Mike sitting in the car, with it ON, waiting for me.

 

He didn't say anything, but like everything in life, actions speak louder than words. I immediately knew at that moment what I would be writing about this week...

 

As a pre-teen, I can honestly say I had a less than stellar hygiene routine. I mean, I took showers people, but there were many a time when I would forget to put on deodorant, forgot to wash my face using the expensive stuff my Mama bought me for acne, etc. etc.

 

In college, there were plen-ty of times when I went to bed at God knows what hour, WITH a full-face of make-up on. Then woke up four hours later and went to class with the same face on from the day before, using Mentos to brush my teeth, and didn't. even. CARE.

 

So what on God's green earth has changed within me, at age 28, that it now takes an HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to achieve a mediocre, presentable Kristin?  Let me walk you through my process and maybe, I'll discover for myself why this abomination is occurring in my full-grown adult life.

 

SHOWER: I'd say this is the longest part of the operation. At a full 20 minutes, many things that happen behind the clothes take place. If it's a shaving day, I have to use my Ultra Sensitive Shaving cream, along with the winner of last summer's "Kristin's Search For the Perfect Razor By Purchasing Every Razor Ever Made" marathon. Because the hair on my legs grows in circles, (literal...CIRCLES) this is long and drawn out process. If I'm awake enough, I'll have been smart enough to shampoo and condition BEFORE this happens so I can leave the conditioner in while shaving. Then I use my fancy face soap. Then I use my fancy body wash. Then I rinse. Then I'm done. Not even gonna lie, back in the day, I could've been caught using shampoo to wash my hair, body, and as shaving cream lather in a pinch. 

 

POST-SHOWER, BEFORE HAIR: With a towel wrapped around my head I brush AND floss--EURday, because I don't like my teeth with fur. Now it's time for some jams. I grew up on country music so by the time I got my own car, I started expanding (widely!) my music collection. Basically, I can still bust out in song when I turn on a country station because they're still playing the same songs that came out when I was FIVE, but I've really grown past that music scene. I'm into all kinds of music, but lately, I've been ALLLLL about the tunes that were huge when I was a teenager. Soooo, probably anything from 1998-2004ish is on my hit list now. I was also born into the wrong generation--I should've been an 80s kid, because I know like, every single 80s song, ever. And I'm confident with my awkward white girl status enough to say that I am quite ghetto fabulous when it comes to knowing hip-hop.

 

While I'm putting on my face, I like to hear something up-beat and pumping, so I begin with a little Jay-Z "Dirt off Ya Shoulder". I start my in-closet search then head back to the vanity. I put on fancy cleanser and fancy moisturizer. Then fancy acne-curing concealer and SPF 45 primer. I'm all about the preventing skin cancer movement, even though I've been known to lay out on a beach for eight hours a day with NADA on my body. By this time, something Whitney has come on and I'm completely preoccupied. "So Emotional" is blasting, and I'm in the mirror like I'm auditioning for her music video back-up singer. I bust a move across the bedroom to my jewelry armoire to pick out matching accessories for the day. Rudy is hiding under the bed at this point because there's air kicking and air punching and head-swinging involved and there's also a pretty good chance that this is all happening sans pants.

 

MAKE-UP: By now I'm back to the vanity and I'm putting on eye liner if I'm in the mood. I have squinty Asian eyes so when I wear liner, I'm pretty much screamin' goth. Some days I just feel 'goth', so I go with it. I put on foundation, then powder, then blush, then eye shadow, then mascara. Nine times outta ten, I stab my eye with the mascara wand and I have to take five to stop the tears. Then I laugh at myself because all the stuff I just put on my face is now a sodden mess. And it looks funny, so I usually stop and take a pic to send to somebody via Snapchat. It takes ten more minutes to fix what all I just messed up.

 

HAIR: This is my favorite part. It's no secret that while God blessed me with faulty baby-making parts, a faulty gall-bladder, whacked jaws, and apparently circular growing hair patterns on my shins, he also blessed me with some fabulous hair. No matter the length, the color, or the style, I've always liked my hair, thus I spend some time loving on it to get it looking the way I like. Most days, I blow it straight, then flat iron which takes maybe 20 minutes. If I'm running WAY late, I use product and scrunch it up, Wavy Lays style.

 

DRESSING: This is the part where I put on what I picked out, stare at myself in the mirror and become disgusted, and take it all off. Which calls for a re-evaluation of the jewelry and eye make-up. The stereo usually flicks to something 90s-ish by now and En Vogue's "Neva Gonna Get It" inspires me to bust out a solo using hair brushes. At the "whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa" part, I usually hear Mike's exasperation from somewhere in the other room so I know I'm pushing the time limit. If my jeans don't require the lay-flat-on-the-bed-and-suck-in fresh out the dryer routine, I can usually be dressed and ready in 10. Sometimes my feet sweat in flats (okay I lied, they sweat all the time) so I put baby powder in my shoes. Not to block out the smell, but apparently to cause a dust to fly up all over my clothes when I slide my feet into them. That causes a minor set-back, so I have to sit and brush off the white that has attacked me...everywhere. I check myself in the mirror and if it's a really good Kristin day, my vain self will bust out the cell phone, cos before it, I have no idea how I looked, apparently.

 

It is a known fact to friends, family, and coworkers that if something should happen to me while in their presence, before 911 is called, #1, check to make sure I have on underwear (if not, I'll let you know where I've stashed a pair I can slip on real quick. And wipe that judge-y look off your face--certain leggings and white pants sometime require commando. Don't even act like you've never done it) Then, #2, get my phone and erase the 405 pictures of myself with 20 different face poses. I'm hugely into pop culture and I'm a victim of this fad. Deal with it. Accept it. You've heard intimate details about my uterus on multiple occasions. Knowing I'm a selfie queen shouldn't sway you away at this point in our relationship!

 

There you have it. What it takes to make...allll this *stands and gestures from head to toe* I guess growing up has made me hyperaware of myself and what I smell and look like to the world. I am certainly not the skinniest or most in shape person, but I know how to tweak it to make myself presentable and most importantly, happy with myself. All girls should be proud of what they have to work with and know how to work it to the best of their ability. Even if it means we girls are deserving of huffy sighs from our spouses who crank up the car and sit in it to make a statement EVERY time you have plans.

 

I just realized my routine took so long to explain that I left out my "touché" story. It takes too long to get ready in real life and it takes too long to explain the story of how I get ready. Perhaps this post was the cure for me shortening my process? Touché. (<---- BOOM!)

I Didn't Choose the No-Gallbladder Life, It Chose Me

It's been four days since the death of my gallbladder. Can I tell you how pissed I am that I weigh no differently than I did last week with it intact? I was hoping for at least 20 pounds. I couldn't slip the doc any extra money to lipo something while he was hanging around in my innards because that would be bribing, so I did manage to do my hair and floss that morning. (FYI--my two best features are my hair and teeth so I had to use them to my advantage).  (FYI--my doc must not be into hair and teeth). Anyway, instead of waking up sans gallbladder AND sans belly fat, I'm essentially still Kristin. Well, I'm still Kristin who has no formal way of processing stomach bile. Do yourself a favor and don't ask me out to Mexican until I get a grasp on this situation.

 

Mike and I always joke that I know every doctor within a 50 mile radius and those doctors have all see my cookie, whether they are gynecologist-related or not. Like, we'll be shopping and run into an Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor and Mike will say, "Is it weird that I'm not the only man here that's seen your vagina?" Well, you'd think a general surgeon whose sole purpose last Friday was to only take out my gallbladder (which is located right under the breast--essentially miles away from any cookie region--) wouldn't have to see anything below my belly button. You'd think that, but then it's me you're dealing with.

 

Naturally, the day of my surgery I had my period. When we arrived at the hospital after the long car ride (in which I had been SITTING) I got out of the car and ladies, you know, you KNOW, that feeling that sometimes happens when you stand after sitting awhile on your period...yeah. I had *that feeling*. I walked awkwardly to the check-in counter and quietly asked the woman behind it where the restroom was. She, the bitch, asked for my name and what I was there for. I explained I was checking in for surgery but I really had to use the bathroom. Bitch then picks up the phone and calls for a nurse. Meanwhile, people are trickling in behind me in line. And other things are also...trickling, if you know what I'm saying. Bitch tells me to step aside and wait a second. Which turned into like five minutes. At this point, I'm miserable. Mike--the ultimate man--has evacuated the building when he caught on to what was going on with me so he's absolutely no help. Other people are checking in and I'm twitching around at the end of the counter. Another receptionist appears and tells me to go sit down and wait for a nurse. Sit down?! Ew. No. When I turn to reply to her that I NEED to go to the bathroom (including the very specific reason WHY) a man and his elderly grandfather come up to the counter...ugh!

 

Minutes later and almost at my wit's end, a nurse comes from down the hall with a cup. I'm thinking I'm quite familiar with what that cup's for. She comes right up to me and says rather loudly (I'm sure it was nice and discreet but at this point everything's dramatized to me), "Are you the patient who needs the restroom?" I glare at her and briskly nod my head. She says, "Well, I need a sample". I lean into her and tell her very frigidly "I'm on my period and I'm sort of in a mess so I'm not sure what kinda sample you're gonna get". She then says, "Oh honey, I needed the sample to check for pregnancy so you just go right ahead without it". Offf course.  

 

Once I get taken back into the prep room, my new MALE nurse tells me to strip down to NOTHING and put on the robe. Ummm...that was gonna be a problem. I gritted my teeth and told him I was on my period so I can't take off my undies. He then produces the ugliest net-material draws I've ever seen in addition to a pad that was bigger and sturdier than Tom Hanks' Castaway raft. I begrudgingly changed and layered up, leaving my period woes behind me--or underneath me, in this case. I stay in pre-op for awhile and eventually forget my period. After all, the team of doctors won't see anything below my stomach.

 

The team comes in that will be performing my surgery and one of them injects the greatest medicine known to mankind into my IV. They start to roll me out and all my stress leaves me. We roll down the hall and I wave to every person I meet, you know, the janitor dumping the trashcans, an old lady being rolled past me, the nurses at the nurses' station. We go in this fancy room. They moved me from the rolling bed onto the operating table. I thought to myself, "It really does take a team of humans to lift my fat ass". I even think I laughed out loud. I then closed my eyes because I was under this huge bright light when all of a sudden, I feel hands at the end of my robe, easing it up. Even drugged out of my mind, I think, "Nnnnooooooo!!!! You're not supposed to look down there!!!!"

 

I don't remember anything after that because three hours later, I woke up in recovery. I immediately check under the covers and see that I still had on the massive granny-panties. My first words to Mike when he entered my room were "You won't believe the room full of people who have now also seen a semi-glance of 'tha land down unda'." He smirked and  said, "It wouldn't be a trip to a medical facility if people didn't see your vag." Touché, Mike. Touché. And that's the story of how I got my gallbladder taken out.