the procrastinating girl

Press Pause

It seems like a millennium ago that I was staring at my ceiling absolutely petrified of giving birth.  I thought I was going to die.  Not really.  But I was scared.  Scared shitless.  My husband usually produced a calming rational counterpoint about how if the women confined to huts in the Afghan desert could do it, I would survive in a cush Westchester hospital with an anesthesiologist wearing an electric shock collar who magically appeared with drugs whenever I pushed a button.  Whatever.  Scared shitless.  So I saw a therapist and she helped me work through some of my fears.  Voila.  Two daughters later, each requiring 2.5 hours of pushing, my fear of doctors was improved, but not cured.  So now when I must see my OB/GYN (actually, nix the OB part as this shop is closed), I still need some prodding.  And there's even less incentive when the appointment must be scheduled light years in advance.  My doctor is booking for the summer.  What will I be doing this July 6th at 10am?  I don't know, maybe I'll hop in my hovercraft over to the Mount Kisco Medical Group.  But I did feel a little fire when I saw that my GYN was just listed in Westchester Magazine's best doctors issue.  Of course I also saw that her specialty is menopause issues.  For that, I can wait.

Dr. G

I hate going to the doctor far more than anyone should.  I hate the waiting room.  I hate the industrial carpeting and the overhead lighting.  And the tattered magazines from 2002.  And the feeling of impending doom.  Yesterday, six months after I was supposed to, I paid mine a visit.  I sat in her waiting room.  I read an extremely old Newsweek.  Newsweek.  I pondered my fate as the minutes passed.  Many.  105 to be exact.  An hour and 45 minutes.  Usually, it's my own psychological failings that have me in a tailspin.  The poke and prod factor.  This time, my blood was boiling.  My precious alone time was squandered!  Newsweek?!  But it must be some kind of karma.  If I had scheduled my appointment back in the fall when I was supposed to, would I have been called in immediately? 

Blood Simple

If there's anything in life I put off whenever possible, it's going to the doctor.  Clearly, this isn't smart.  Nor is it high on anyone's list of preferred activities, but for me it ranks right under crashing the Palin family reunion.  I have a sordid history of passing out cold upon the threat of a medical procedure.  And needles?  Forget it.  Smelling salts.  The alternative was I had to have something sugary to bring me back to earth.  My Ob/Gyn in the city gave me juice boxes.  That worked well, although one time it was a Five Alive-y drink that contained banana (gross!), so while I was no longer catatonic, I was indeed nauseous.  I know, I am too much fun.  But things have improved with time.  I have learned the secrets of deep breathing and relaxation.  I can manage my anticipation anxiety.  I have given birth without incident.  Twice.  But this morning, for the first time in quite awhile, I had to have blood drawn.  And it had to be today, in time for an appointment tomorrow.  I was nervous, but I got it done.  And I didn't even need a lollipop.

Gym Dandy

One thing that surprises me about my adult life is that I am an avid gym-goer.  I never saw it coming.  I was always athletic.  Played sports.  On teams.  Individually.  What have you.  But I was never an on-the-machine, under-the-fluorescent lights kind of worker-outer.  Unbelievably, making it to the gym now never falls off my to-do list.  I find it effortless.  In fact, I look forward to jumping on the treadmill and blasting some horrible song only every 6th grader and I know by heart.  But yesterday I hit a wall.  Sure, I was dressed in Dry-Fit.  And I got a great parking spot.  But I just didn't want to deal.  I sat in my car and talked on my cell for about 40 minutes.  Then desperate-dialed three more friends.  Finally, I got out of my car (good...), and headed toward the little bridge near the back entry of the gym.  As I was crossing it, my cell rang and I had to discuss the details of my unfinished basement with a potential contractor. While still on the phone, I bumped into Allison, a key member of my inner circle.  This was too easy.  I thought I was going to have to rely on the painfully slow detangling of my headphones to avoid reality.  As Ali and I were engrossed, two more very dear friends emerged with yoga mats in hand.  They were off to grab post-class coffee.  How would I feel about going to the gym without actually GOING to the gym?  No problem.  I did an insta-180 off that bridge.  But today I went back.  Yes, inside.  And ran.  Fast.

Recovery Mode

I hate when I hear an ad that's basically a symptom checklist.  You know what I mean.  A woman's voice says:  Are you tired?  Short-tempered?  Experiencing a loss of appetite?  And on.  I sit in my car or on the couch involuntarily nodding away only to be told at the end that I am now a candidate to take some anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-inflammatory wonderdrug.  Or it could be that I'm just tired and hungry.  Anyway, I was surfing around yesterday trying to make sense of my number two affliction (my headaches are always in the pole position) and found out I could actually be sick.  Yes, that's right.  Chronic disorganization.  But before I rush to the ER and give the staff a story to tell their grandchildren, I figured I would Google it to death.  And I found the symptom checklist.  Some highlights:

1. Has your disorganization persisted for years?  My high school locker would have served as exhibit A.  It was a bloodbath of looseleaf.

2. Does it take more than 3 minutes to find papers in your office?  It takes me more than 3 minutes to even begin to guess where to look.

3. Are your countertops covered in papers?  What countertops?

After reading the whole list, I think I'm a borderline case.  But if I were to be sent away for a long, drawn-out recovery, do you think it would be at some maximum security lock-down facility where you're only allowed a book and a toothbrush?  Or are we talking more like Lindsay Lohan's first shot at rehab aka a glorified spa in, was it, Montana?  Oh yeah, I need to be healed.

Foodstuff

I just got back from my weekly biofeedback appointment.  I meet with my meditation doctor in a brick red renovated carriage house on an unpaved road in the heart of town.  In the back, there's a garden co-op project and I was a little early (duh), so I got to relax on a still-damp chaise and eavesdrop on some of their summer plans.  I have some pretty serious envy for the whole organic, vegetarian, slow food kind of lifestyle, but haven't made it happen in a life-changing kind of way.  And I am so close, just by nature.  I am a very picky eater, in fact, until about age 12, my diet consisted of grapefruit, bagels and Grape Nuts.  As I got older, I expanded my horizons (is that yellow curry?), but I am still far more the herbivore.  Veal?  Lamb?  Forget it.  Poultry?  No thanks, especially since it runs across my yard every morning (a whole different story).  I will like a steak every now and then, but never desire a burger.  I ate my first hot dog when I was 25.  Still freaked out.  Several weeks ago, I bought a cookbook that I thought would help give me the last push I needed to get to the veggie side.  It has unbelievably simple recipes, beautiful pictures and seemingly great-tasting dishes.  So far, it looks great on my counter.   But it may be time to crack its spine.  It's not even officially summer and I am already sick of the smell of grill.

Happy NHAW!

Well, these are some exciting times.  Summer is almost here!  We've got a throwback Lakers-Celtics final!  And it is National Headache Awareness Week!  I know, it sneaks up on me every year too.  Migraine headaches, for anyone who hasn't known me for more than five minutes, play a major role in my life and have since I was a teenager.  But I wasn't properly diagnosed until I was working in publishing in Manhattan and twice a week got so dizzy with pain I could no longer see the keys on my, yes, typewriter.  I had to slink out early when quitting time was already right at 5pm.  That went over well with my demonic boss.  I think she actually breathed fire.  Anyway, after years of experimenting with various treatments and medications and ignoring people who told me 'just avoid wheat', I am now doing quite well.  But I should have dealt with it much earlier in my life.  Sigh.  So if your head hurts, please look into it.  Ok, off soapbox, on to making dinner...