Rose-Colored Glasses? Yeah, Right!

As the gulf oil spill continues to gush and my migraines to crush, the news from Lake Woe-Is-Me is not as rosy as I’d hoped.  I know, I know - I made a vow to remain positive for the entire month of June, but my migraine brain refuses to let me live up to it. On Monday it unleashed what has now turned into a three-day bender’s-worth of pain, and it’s been really, really (yes – really) hard for me to do anything more than lie around in the dark, blocking out the bright, sunshine-y days outside my window.

Some of you TV-watchers may be familiar with the series Say Yes to the Dress (I’ve never watched it - sorry), which is why I’d like to introduce you to my own, original, newly-developing spring blockbuster: Say Yes, You’re a Mess. Oh what clever things I think up when I’m lying in bed, listening to the wheels go round and round.

Here are some of the upcoming episode titles: Yes, I’m spending too much time groaning, kvetching, and moaning (but you would, too, if it happened to yoooooou). Yes, I find it difficult to look on the bright side (even though I have a terrific pair of dark prescription sunglasses). Yes, I know I’m not a magician, which is why I can’t wave a magic wand and stop the pain. Yes, I’m doing yoga breathing, although it only seems to work on others, for some strange reason. Yes, I’ve made promises I can’t keep, even though I’m not Tim Hardin. Yes, I can do something about this mess I’m in, which is why I’m going to see my drug-pushing neurologist tomorrow instead of eating lunch at home like I usually do. And, finally, yes, we have no bananas.

Doldon (that’s what I sound like when I say “hold on,” especially when I’m teaching ESL) to your hats. Someone at the New England Center for Headache (in Stamford, CT) just called to “congratulate” (her word, not mine) me for being “accepted” (who do they think they are? Harvard?) as a patient (I called yesterday, when the pain was getting me down, to find out if they’re on the up and up). But, first, I must fill out a gigantic packet of forms, then pledge to pay out of pocket, since they don’t accept our insurance, and, last but not least, wait until August to be seen (or sooner, should someone cancel an appointment – or die, whichever happens first – nudge nudge, wink wink). As you can imagine – yes – I’m not over the moon about this place.

And the beat goes on, even though, yes, I know I’m not Cher (but once, right before my senior year of high school started, I was at a school dance, and the guy I was dancing with said my long hair made me look like Cher).