Ah, fall colors in the great north country. The husband and I checked into our king suite (of course the last room available was also the biggest), ironed our clothes for the wedding, and went off on a downtown adventure.
There was a lot going on, including an Occupy Wall Street Midwest Chapter protest that we walked through twice, giggling when the enthusiastic young man with no job or life goals insisted that we, along with everyone else, “have NO representation!”Pretty sure between the two of us, the husband and I have sufficient representation at all levels of government. My get well cards and our cell phone contact lists attest to this.
Me: That girl in the protest is wearing Hunter rain boots and drinking Starbucks.
The husband: So?
Me: Hunter boots are really nice and expensive and she’s standing there complaining about not having enough money.
The husband: Aren’t those the kind of rain boots you want?
Me: Yes! And despite two incomes and a frugal household budget, I still can’t justify the purchase!
The husband: Oh look, her sign says she’s offering free hugs.
Me: That’s because she spent all her money on her Hunter rain boots.
The husband and I strolled at my pace through the quaint town, enjoying the blustery fall day. I was feeling mostly okay but dizziness kept coming and going and it made me nervous. I sat in between some chatty and perfumed tourists while the husband and I waited for our lunch table and after a bit I closed my eyes and tried to picture being on the beach. The football game on all the TVs elicited boisterous cheering at frequent intervals and when my phone buzzed with a text message from the husband, standing ten feet away against the wall, asking if I wanted to go somewhere else, my response was simple. I cried.
I couldn’t help it, I was overwhelmed. I felt dumb for crying and bad for making us go somewhere else for lunch but wonderful husbands don’t care about changed plans. The husband reminded me that I had surgery last week and we need to do what works for me but getting rattled so easily is unnerving and not like me, and that contributed to my distress.
After leaving the brewpub equivalent of a frat house, we ate grilled cheese at the cafe equivalent of a kindergarten classroom, complete with festive bat and spider and pumpkin die-cuts taped to the windows. When we got back to the hotel, I took the meds I probably should have had with me all along.
The thing about narcotics is that they stop not only the pain but, oh, you know, other things. Ten days after surgery and I finally feel like a new woman. Thanks, fiber gummy vitamins. And pistachios. And raspberries. Pears. Apples. Strawberries. Banana-and-spinach shakes. Bran muffins. Whole wheat pasta. Oatmeal. Black licorice. Beans. Blessed beans.
The wedding and the rest of the night were great. Though normally a dancer, I enjoyed the activity from the comfort of a red plush chair, tropical drink in hand. And by tropical drink I mean orange and pineapple juice. The friends who got married have very discerning taste in libations and the wine and beer available were, I heard, excellent. Not only was I unable to partake thanks to my medication and compromised balance, but to add insult to injury, as everyone else stood around with fancy goblets, every glass of pineapple juice or root beer I drank came with a damn straw.
And in other news, The Invisible Sibling does exist! After nearly two decades of friendship with this weekend’s bride, on Saturday evening I met The Invisible Sibling and even shook her hand. At the end of the night, to verify that no holograms were at work, I made a point of speaking to her and shaking her hand in friendly acquaintance once more. And that’s it. She’s real. Case closed, and thanks to her strong family resemblance and laugh identical to her other sisters’, I didn’t even have to resort to questionable measures to verify ID.
Tomorrow I go to work. I’m getting rides to-and-from all week.
Dietrich got 5 out of 5 tail wags on his camp report card.