Get Dizzy With It

We had another lovely day of cool air and drizzle. Not exactly the kind of weather that inspires you to conquer the world; more like the kind that makes you aim to become a professional napper, or an actor playing someone who's in a coma. Lucky for me, work didn't require much physical energy, just a lot of social shmoozing to recruit volunteers for the non-profit at the college "Service Learning" fair.

My ceramics time was being intruded upon by the volunteer event, and the rain was making the idea of forgoing my clay time rather tempting. I was also craving my Saturday cheeseburger... as I didn't treat myself to one last week because I had dinner plans that night. But, when I got back to my car, I realized that my cheeseburger money was in my pants pocket... freshly laundered and fabric softened. Pffft!

So off to ceramics I went. Feeling lazy, and certainly uninspired. All of my pieces had been glazed and were awaiting firing, so I was going to have to create something. I actually considered making a cheeseburger, because that was what my mind was dreaming of, but I was afraid I would chip my teeth in an attempt to eat it someday. For the sake of retaining my ability to chew, I decided to go with the ol' standby... a few more serving dishes. Easy. Brainless. Non-cheeseburger-fantasy-interrupters.

Suddenly, a few minutes after two in the afternoon, I became very light-headed, and thought I might pass out. There is nothing soft, or cushiony, in the studio... so falling unconscious and cracking my head open like a ripe melon did not seem like a good idea. There were only two of us there at this point, and I was too uncomfortable with telling LeeAnn how funky I was feeling. I hate drama. So, I kept it to myself. I tried to sit with my head by my knees. Tried focusing on breathing. Nothing was working. I've had these spells periodically over the last two years, and last summer I sought medical attention for those symptoms, as well as having pain in my chest. Unfortunately, I had already lost my job, so getting the necessary follow-up blood work to explore other possible causes wasn't an option. And... the Indian Medicine Woman Doctor Lady's constant insistence that I could be pregnant annoyed the hell out of me. I hadn't had sex in over a year, and having someone try to convince me that Jesus would choose me for his second coming, or I was gonna push out a toddler in a walker, was just insulting. I'll finally confess that I have been secretly concerned (for years) that I may be diabetic. I absolutely hate doctors, and always fear that I'll have some incurable, terminal illness, one that requires me to wear an Eva Gabor wig, and wish that I would have joined a band before I became bed-ridden. It's really rather juvenile... but it's my reality.

Here it is some seven hours later, and I am still not quite right. I had to cancel a visit from a friend to try and nap it off. I've eaten. Rested. Am still drinking water... Tried to hit all of the obvious causes: dehydration, low blood sugar, exhaustion. My last "episode" was within the last two weeks and occurred while I was walking down the hallway maze at work. Again, I was more worried about embarrassment, or an over-reacting do-gooder calling an ambulance and being socked with an astronomical bill... but I think I might have to deal with whatever this is... soon. I'm gonna have to hang up my chicken shorts, and go to the evil man with needles to find out what is going on before I pass out in public wearing ugly underwear. Grandma says you should always wear clean ones in case you get in an accident. I'm happy to report that I do always wear clean ones, but the thought of passing out in front of people is more horrifying than wearing dirty ones. Maybe not.

Anyway...

I did manage to muster up enough energy to move things around in my garage to make room for my brother's motorcycle. He's going to be storing some things in my garage and attic while he searches for a professorship job down state. We haven't been able to see each other much over the past several years, as he's been out of the country, and out of state until recently. The only large item I had to move was my old dishwasher; the only appliance this palace of a house came with when I bought it. I had been wanting to unload it since 2007, but my Honda Civic isn't built for large appliance transport to the dump, so there it sat, for almost two years. I wheeled it out to the curb around 8, and because I live in such an affluent neighborhood, it was snatched up before 9 o'clock! Hell yeah! I'd like to believe a poor woman with five kids picked it up to make her life easier... but I bet it's going to the scrap yard to get $5 worth of malt liquor. What do I care? It's out of my garage, and out of my life.

We can get rid of old shit that we don't have use for rather easily, but we can't rid ourselves of getting old. That's what sucks! When you get to a certain age, you begin to realize that things can start to go wrong; start hurting, stop working, and fall apart. I'm sure it's nothing serious. In fact, the only serious thing about this "gettin' dizzy with it," is my seriously immature phobia of doctors. (Oh... and the needles... do I ever hate the needles!) I've got a job now, so I'm out of honest excuses; and I've always said, "I'm not going anywhere. There's a few more people I'd like to piss off!" So don't you try to make a claim on my 90's era "Booty Mix" ill-chosen CD collections, or come after my new dishwasher just yet.