I’m glad I wasn’t hot as a teenager.

Growing up, I was not only chubby, but also an early bloomer. This meant that I was naturally taller than the other kids my age and grew breasts sooner. In the sixth grade, when the other girls still wore t-shirts with glittery puppies on them, I shopped in the women’s section and experimented with taping down my breasts like Roberta in Now and Then. Spoiler alert: don’t.

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I also happened to have a mother who swung between the extremes of neglectful and overindulgent, letting me go without a bra and put on extra weight in the first place, only to eventually fight the insurance companies to fund my breast reduction at age 15.

It wasn’t until I was 24 years old and 90 pounds lighter than a year before, that I began to consider diet and exercise just a part of life for all people and not just those who struggle with their weight. My high school years were spent watching TV, playing the Sims, and enjoying Elevensies and Fourth Meal, before they were cool. My favorite outfit was pretty much stolen straight from She’s All That, consisting of combat boots with ribbons for laces, overalls, a turtleneck, and thick black framed glasses. I wasn’t morbidly obese at the time, but I wasn’t Rachel Leigh Cook, either. Since I was never great with makeup and still prefer portable drug store options, 15-year-old Belle was pretty strictly a concealer and lip balm gal, on a fancy day. In short, I was never that girl who wore Abercrombie and Fitch.

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It. Was. Awesome.

Y’all, I got to do the high school thing without any of the “I have nothing to wear! I’m not going!” crap that I’m faced with on a daily basis, now. I was a lot of things in high school. I was smart, funny, driven, mouthy, relatively responsible, creative, loyal, and insightful. Being hot, having people appreciate my appearance first, was just never a priority for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely consumed with my appearance, today. I often rejoice over the fact that I’m officially old enough to be mistaken as an overworked stay-at-home mom, on the rare occasion that I go out in an oversized t-shirt, Star Trek pants, and flip flops. When I’m at work, however, it’s all A-line Zooey Deschanel dresses, cardigans, and full makeup and jewelry. I have to be a professional, these days, and that takes a lot more work.

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Still, even at my most dolled up, I’m not what an average guy would refer to as “hot.” I have nice legs, hair, and clear skin. I’ve also never seen my own ab muscles and don’t know how to use foundation. I’ve never been comfortable in a bikini, even outside of my own standards of modesty, because I’m still… soft. Extreme weight loss comes with stretch marks, no matter how you do it and honestly, I don’t really mind. Yes, yes, I’d love to be 20 pounds lighter and it’s certainly a goal, but this is good, too. In fact, it was good at 24. It’s awesome now.

Y’all, I am officially at a point in my life where everyone is soft. The girls I envied in high school, who could put away 4,000 calories and still maintain their lithe, athletic figures no longer run five miles a day. The one who wore that prom dress with the slit cut to her waist only gets to exercise when she’s chasing her two kids around the McDonald’s play yard. We’re all wearing mom jeans now and I have fifteen years of experience on the high school hot girls. When I look back at my nerdy girl, awkward years photos, the nostalgia isn’t tainted by envy. There was only one way to go from Carrie White bleeding in the locker room showers and that was up… or you know, to prom with fire. Fortunately, I chose the former and I am in my hot years, now.

I’m getting married naked.

Gail and I are living the besties dream, y’all. We’re looking at being engaged at the same time. Naturally, this means we spend all of our time poring over $16 bridal magazines, discussing the merits of white versus ivory, and sewing lace to burlap.

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It’s funny, because it’s a lie.

Gail and I both find weddings to be one of the most superfluous luxuries of modern society. So much money is spent on flowers and tablecloths and wedding favors and no one even remembers them. Tell me: why exactly would I buy gifts for my guests? Their wedding favor is free food and booze. But no, I will not get on that rant right now. That’s much better saved for another time. My rant, today, is purely about the horror that is wedding dress shopping.

Neither Gail, nor I, plan to endure the actual wedding dress shopping experience. Gail wants to buy something at a department store the week before the event, like she’s going to the 8th grade formal, while I want to buy something right off the rack and hope for the best from alterations. For this reason, I suggested we go wedding dress shopping now, when it truly doesn’t matter, because I don’t even have a ring and Gail just mumbles something about the year 2018, when asked when she’s getting married. So, the plan was to browse, perhaps try something on, but be completely transparent in our intentions, so as not to waste anyone’s time. What better place to do that than David’s Bridal?

Y’all, I might be getting married naked. Perhaps I’ll wear some kind of paint with large jewelry concealing my illegal bits, like in that erotic novel I read. Maybe I’ll play homage to my Native American roots and get married in a fringed nightgown… because traditional wedding dress shopping is miserable when you’re not getting married any time soon, so I can’t imagine how it would be were I actually engaged.

When we walked into David’s Bridal, the first thing we were asked was whether or not we had an appointment, because each dressing room was assigned to a personal stylist. The second thing we were asked was for our wedding dates. After explaining that we weren’t serious shoppers, I made an appointment for thirty minutes later and jotted down some time in April, because it’s approximately a thousand years from now.

Five minutes later, Olga the Stylist (not even a pseudonym) introduced herself.

Olga: “Well, your wedding date is coming up really fast…”
Me: “Oh, I just wrote that down, because she asked me for a date. My boyfriend and I are definitely planning on marriage, but I don’t even have a ring yet. We’re really just browsing.”
Olga: “Well, what kind of dress do you have in mind?”
Me: “Honestly, I’m not even sure if a bridal shop is the right place to find what I’m looking for, but I was thinking tea length.”
Olga: “Well, we only have a few tea length dresses, but your date is right around the corner, so you’d pretty much have to order now, unless you want off the rack.”
Me: “I’m actually totally fine with off the rack. That’s likely what I’ll do anyway, because I imagine we’ll have a pretty short engagement.”
Olga: ::laughingly:: “Well, I’m not pushy at all. I’m a terrible saleswoman. Let’s just see what we’ve got. Now, your wedding date is coming up really fast, so if you like any of these, we have a credit card with no interest for the first six months…”
Me: “Well, really, we’re not even engaged yet, but when it does happen, I promise my boyfriend would not be okay with financing anything.”
Olga: “Is he the one who will be paying for your dress?”

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Me: “Well, he’s the one who wants the big wedding, so yeah, probably, but we’re not actually engaged yet, so…”
Olga: “Oh, sweetie, I’ve sold dresses to women who don’t even have the ring yet.”
Me: “Well, I definitely don’t have a ring.”

What… what do I even say to all that? I mean, do I just read off the bullet points?

  1. Horseshit. There is no way I can’t get a dress in less than eight theoretical months.
  2. Please, continue telling me how not pushy you are, as you try to get me to take out a line of credit for a wedding dress, before my engagement.
  3. Said wedding dress is hypothetical, because my “wedding date” is pretend. I’M NOT ENGAGED! I’ve told you that five times.
  4. What the fuck?!?! How is it anyone’s business who’s paying for what part of my MAKE BELIEVE wedding?!? If it weren’t incredibly rude and inappropriate of you to ask that, are you really suggesting I go against what my NOT FIANCE wants for us financially? Should you really be in the wedding business?!?!
  5. It’s oh-so-fortunate for you that you serve so many batshit crazy customers, but buying a wedding dress before being asked to marry someone is insane.tumblr_mvk8usae1r1rtzeu6o1_500
  6. You’re right about one thing. You are a terrible saleswoman.

Gail and I stayed and tried on a couple of dresses, giggling in the fitting room about how horrible the whole thing was, while Olga aggressively tried to get a date out of Gail. We left pretty quickly, as neither of us was comfortable continuing to browse imaginary wedding dresses to the sound of a ticking bomb. Later, as we browsed dresses at Macy’s, we declared that that was the very last bridal store trip either of us would take. One thing I will credit this venture with, however, is my re-dedication to my diet. There’s nothing like trying on a wedding dress to make you want to moo at the mirror. I mean, my wedding is in like five hours and I’ve gotta look damned good, since I’m going naked.

Living in the Moment

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At 19, nine years ago today, I came home from work to find my house burned down, my pets dead on the lawn, and my ex-husband suspiciously profiting from the tragedy on the same day he lost another job.

At 20, I woke to pounding on my front door and an officer telling us we’d been evicted… with my ex-husband suspiciously insisting he’d been paying the rent.

At 21, I spent an ice storm in a motel room after being evicted, again… with my ex-husband, suspiciously insisting he’d been paying the rent, again. Later that year, we lived in another motel room for two whole months.

At 22, I had just lost a baby, my ex-husband totaled the truck my Gramma gave me for my 16th birthday, Gail buried her infant daughter, and the engine blew up in my car right after my college graduation… with my ex-husband suspiciously insisting he’d changed the oil.

At 23, 24, and 25, I worked two jobs and took grad school classes online, while coping with the fall-out from an emotionally exhausting divorce and attempting to date.

At 26 and 27, I continued working two jobs, with my only emergency fund and healthcare provider being prayer.

My entire adult life has been spent looking toward the future, because the present was at best unsustainable, and at worst made me near suicidal. For years, I told myself that things would be different in X amount of time. In five years, I’d be done with school/have steady income/be married to a good man. If I could only get through the present, the answer to my prayers was just on the horizon. This line of thinking was, quite literally, the only thing that kept me going, at times. I lived for the future, because I had no choice. It was pure survival.

Now, I’m 28-years-old. I’ve finished my master’s degree and and have a full time supervisory librarian position. I have healthcare and a hearty retirement fund. I have the money I need and even some extra I want. I met the man I’m certain I’ll marry and he’s perfect for me (not for anyone else, because he can’t keep his foot out of his mouth). I even got the black kitten I’ve yearned for, Thackery Binx. I’m living what will most certainly be some of the most exciting years of my life and it’s so ingrained in me to look forward that I’m afraid I’m missing it.

Last week, I wrote about my readiness to marry Jake. I don’t begrudge myself the eagerness to start our lives together. I think it’s healthy, at this point in our relationship and that’s truly not what I’m referencing. I just worry that I’ll look back and see myself always longing for another time, never enjoying the moment, because of a time when there were so few moments to enjoy. It’s not just me, I don’t think. We, as a society, treat life’s many stages as though half should be spent waiting, the other half reminiscing, with only a few years in between intended to be enjoyed. I was miserable for so long that I want to take the time to enjoy it all. I don’t want to marry Jake and count the days until we can pay off the debt, buy the house, have the babies, get them in school, get them out of the house, have grandbabies. I’ve been wishing my life away and for a time, it was necessary, but it’s just so good right now, that I wish I could be truly content.

Over the Fourth of July, I downed half a pitcher of margaritas and drunkenly fell on my ass while trying to get Jake to dance with me, in the park. I lit sparklers for his nieces and watched them chase their pigs. His mom and oldest niece both hugged me for the first time, before we left and I felt like one day we’ll really be family. Last week, when I drove to Wellston to enjoy a few hours with Jake, he tackled me to the couch, when I announced that his friends were going to think he was super sappy, as I tried to share Facebook’s “Friendiversary ” video from his phone. He cuddled me on his bed and let me give him Eskimo kisses. I’m terrified that I’m going to wake up one day, old and grey, devastated that I never truly appreciated these insignificantly beautiful moments and I pray for the ability to just… be.

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A Readiness to Marry

Jake lay on the bed, his back toward me. A few minutes later, he rolled over to see me quietly crying.

Jake: “What’s wrong?!?”
Me: “I’m not going to see you for three weeks!”

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Fuck all those people who told me you get more emotional as you get older. Fuck them for being right. It’s disgusting.

Jake’s job really sucks, right now, with a two weeks on and one week off schedule. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I got to see him for a few days out of the month, last month. We saw each other in the middle and then at the very end, only speaking on the phone in between. The times we have seen each other have frequently been shared with his family, such as when we went to the rodeo for Memorial Day, when Jake helped his sister brand cattle on our anniversary weekend, and when we spent the Fourth of July in Wellston helping clean up after a storm took out her barn. Jake just doesn’t have enough time to do all he needs to on his week off and would rather take me along than miss out on time together.

Of course, I would selfishly rather he skip all those non-Belle activities and spend more quality time with me. Therefore, a bit of the time we have together is wasted on me fighting with myself (and sometimes a super understanding Jake), because I can’t help being upset that we don’t get more alone time and more time in general. After a long weekend together, the moment he leaves is just… heartbreaking. I spend the whole day on the brink of tears.

I liked being single, y’all. I had so much fun having my One Tree Hill marathons, while crafting in a t-shirt and panties. That’s one of the reasons I’ve stated for why Jake won’t be living with me, before marriage. This is the last time I get to do these things, in excess. I’m trying to take advantage, too. I’ve been spending the time alone working on my photo album projects, having girls’ nights, watching Army Wives and old teen movies and… it’s just not fun anymore. I try to remind myself that five years from now, I’ll do anything for a week alone and it’s just not working.

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While Jake and I don’t live together and won’t until we share a name, there have been a few occurrences when it’s been easier for him to stay with me for a week than drive back to Wellston every night, just depending on his job location. These snapshots of married life have really shown me what it will be like, particularly when he has a rough schedule. I know that not every night will be a romantic night out, that sometimes Jake will come home from work with just enough energy to shower and go to bed. I’m aware that during these times, I’ll be the one doing most of the domestic chores, including buying him new underwear and t-shirts. He’ll criticize my Diet Coke intake and we’ll argue over how that compares to his beer intake. I’ll have to sit through more damned Ben Stiller movies than I ever anticipated. But… he’ll be with me.

In February, I told Jake that I imagined I’d say yes after a year of dating, based on our progress at the time. I was right. If he asked me tomorrow, or more likely after his job settles a bit, I’d pull out my calendar and choose a date right then. I hate weddings. I’m sure you’ll read all about how and why in the next year, but I am not a wedding gal. I just want Jake. I’ll sign his prenup, stating that I’m not after the family ranch. I’ll argue with his mother over cake toppers and flowers. I’ll do the drama where I tell my mom she can’t come. I don’t care. I just want to get to the part where I get to see him every day, sign his name with mine, and spend our lives together.

A few years ago, I tried to explain to Gail why living together before marriage just wouldn’t work for me. I theorized that cohabitating for a marriage bound couple might deprive them of experiencing a true readiness to marry. By going halfsies on commitment, by taking on some of the duties and most of the perks, the remaining benefits could become muted and vague and wouldn’t necessarily outweigh the added responsibility of forever. When I have a bad day and long to curl up with Jake on the couch, while he plays with my hair and doesn’t ask a single question; when I wake up alone and wish he were there to roll over and kiss me on the forehead; when I eat dinner in front of the TV and would prefer to be at the table with him; I know I was right. If I experienced these little luxuries every day, I wouldn’t yearn for them as a part of marriage. As much as it aches right now, I’m really quite grateful that I’ve gotten the chance to truly recognize the readiness for marriage… and I wish the day would hurry up and get here.

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Getting My Tattoo Removed

At 24 years old, I sat in a Sonic drive-through with Gail.

Gail: “What do you wanna do?”
Me: “Let’s get tattoos!”

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Now, perhaps, if I’d actually had a tattoo in mind, this wouldn’t have been such an inevitably regrettable decision. I am not anti-tattoo. My first was not my last. I also have my Gramma’s signature of her first name, which is my middle name and hopefully one day my daughter’s middle name, on my left foot. I will genuinely cherish that tattoo for all time, particularly when she’s gone, though she still insists that she’ll live forever. At 24, though, I had just divorced my ex-husband, lost 90 pounds, was dating again, nearing graduation for my master’s degree, and felt like I’d gotten my whole life back. I wanted to commemorate that, so when put on the spot, I chose something that spoke of life to me. The fact that it was a Logan’s Run reference was just an added bonus.

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Today, I look at this tattoo and you know what I see? I see a girl who needed to start her life over and all the reasons why. I see a 260 pound 22-year-old fantasizing that her psychotic husband will kill himself. I see two part-time jobs substitute teaching and cleaning gym equipment with a bachelor’s degree. I see myself driving around with all of my valuables in my trunk, because the man I live with will pawn them. I see a 24-year-old who desperately wants to distance herself from the most terrifying years of her life, by getting a tattoo that symbolizes their end.

You know what, though? I did get my whole life back. I got to be young and reasonably fit. I got to go to bars with my friends and giggle through bad date stories. I finished my master’s degree and built a career. I fell in love. I’m going to get married and have babies and buy a home and it’s just going to be… my life. I don’t need a reminder that I ever had another one. I’d love to say that I came to this conclusion, gradually, over the last four years, and in a way, I did. However, I also went home from the tattoo parlor, looked at my cliché white girl ankh, and Googled how much it would cost to remove it. Maybe a part of me knew, even then, that this symbol wouldn’t be relevant for the rest of my life. Knowing removal would be costly and painful, of course, I tried to rationalize. This was my Gail tattoo. This was something crazy and impulsive we did together. Had I just gotten something silly and fun, like an elephant or a flower, then sure, it would be. But, as Jake and I have become more serious, I can’t deny that this is a reminder of a time in my life that it hurts to remember. Those years still cause me nightmares and I think about them every time I look at this tattoo. I just… don’t want it anymore. I also know that, when it comes to removal, it’s now or never. If I still have this tattoo when I get married or especially when I have kids, it’s not going to be a financial priority. So, a couple of months ago, I bit the bullet and scheduled my first consultation.

Speaking of time and finances, do you have any idea how long it takes to get a tattoo removed or how much it costs? Perhaps I shouldn’t have built my expectations for this procedure on a season of How I Met Your Mother, but I felt like it was a two to three month process, of 10 sessions. No. In fact, there must be eight weeks between each laser removal session and patients are advised to expect 10 sessions. So, in a year and a half, I can hope to see a mostly clear-skinned foot. That’s right. Results cannot be guaranteed, so the decision must be made to pay the price and hope for the best. That price, at the only clinic in the city, is $35 per square inch, with a $50 minimum. Because my tattoo is thankfully small, that makes it $50 per session. I’m no mathematician, but even I can figure that it’s going to cost more than $500 to  get this tiny little ankh off my foot. So, how much does it hurt?

Thiiiiiiis much.

The first picture is of the scorch marks from the laser. The second is of the blistering that happened later. I did a little bit of research online, about how much the procedure hurts, trying to get an idea of whether or not it would even be bearable, before investing money. The comparisons ranged from “popping like a rubber band” to “small droplets of hot grease hitting your skin.” In my personal experience, the latter was dead on. Fortunately, I have a great technician, who will stop and let me take a break. The first session took me three goes, the second only two.

Does it hurt more than getting the tattoo? Yes, but it’s a much quicker process. Because my tattoo was so small, it would’ve taken, literally, about 30 seconds to do the whole thing, had I not needed breaks. Getting the tattoo took about five minutes and was also quite painful. Personally, I’d rather the extreme pain of removal for 30 seconds than the substantial pain of application for 10 times that. That being said, were this tattoo any bigger, I’m not sure I’d bother, partly for the price and partly for the pain.

As it stands, now, I’ve been through two tattoo removal sessions and I deem it bearable… but only just. I’m cheap, though, so even if it did get more painful, I’d be completing the process, because I’ve already invested $100. Fortunately, it’s supposed to get less painful, but pretty much always be awful. I keep having nightmares that I have larger and uglier tattoos to remove. Will this one be worth the time, pain, and expense? For me, yes. My advice overall, is simply not to accompany a divorce with at tattoo.

The One Promise I CAN Make to My Future Children

Dear Future Children,

I have six or seven unopened pregnancy tests under my bathroom counter, right now… and not out of hope, but paranoia. I’m not ready for you yet. You’re really more of a concept, an eventuality, and as such, I can’t make a lot of promises. I can’t promise I’ll never yell at you. I can’t promise that I’ll put my phone away every time you have a story to tell. I can’t promise that I’ll never send you to school sick, because I was certain you were bluffing. I can’t promise that I won’t look away for a second, missing the moment you climbed too high and fell and broke your arm. I certainly can’t promise to never embarrass you.

When you’re 11 and just starting to notice that other people judge you, and you forget to tell me that you need a cover for the report that’s due the next morning, I’m wearing my Star Trek pants to the store, or we’re not going. In 2035, when I catch you having a hologram chat with that boy you’ve been crushing on, I’ll interrupt to explain that it’s late and you’re now grounded. If you’re a cute redheaded girl, then I genuinely apologize for how much worse your dad will be on your first date.

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It’d probably be more accurate to just go ahead and promise that I will embarrass you. I’ll sing and dance to 50’s music, when I clean. I’ll use outdated words and phrases, like hogswoggle and hokum. I’ll wear t-shirts that say things like “Having fun isn’t hard, when you have a library card.” I’ll do these things even more when you complain. The one promise that I absolutely can make to you, though, is that I will never embarrass you online.

When you get stuck in the doggy door, I’ll text a photo to your grandma… but I won’t put it on Instagram. When you throw a tantrum at the mall, long after the acceptable age to do so, I’ll record it and send it to your father… but I won’t live stream it. When you have your first wet dream or your first period, I’ll update your Aunt Gail… but I won’t update Facebook. When you’re caught cheating on a test, I’ll make you tearfully tell your dad… but not Youtube.

The people who love you will know all of your embarrassing stories, just as those who love me know mine. That’s the cost of having family and you should never take that for granted. That photo of you, proudly wearing nothing but underwear and a princess crown, will make the annual family album. However, when you have a falling out with your best friend in the 7th grade, she won’t be able to tag everyone you know in it, along with the one where you smeared your diaper all over the crib.

I know that I’ll make mistakes as a parent. There will be times when I forget to sign your permission slip and keep you from watching that video in class. Maybe I’ll forget that your friend is allergic to melon. I’m sure I’ll yell at you for something, only to realize later that your father is to blame. In response, I’ll atone privately, not while wearing a sign around my neck on Facebook. In turn, I vow that you’ll receive the same courtesy. You’ll be lectured and punished, but it will happen behind closed doors. I’ll receive validation from your dad and Gail, not that woman I graduated high school with 25 years earlier.

When your first boss Googles your name, anything scandalous to be found will be your poor decision making, not mine. Large scale shame and humiliation will never be part of your punishment. When I’m angry with you for being a disrespectful brat, I’ll tell your grandpa, not all 157 of my closest social networking pals… only for you to read all about it four years later. I don’t know anything about being a parent. I can’t promise that I’ll be any good at it. I can, however, promise that I will not ruin your online reputation, before you even get the chance.

Why I Threw Away My Nuvaring and No Longer Trust My Doctors

At no point does this post become unpleasantly detailed.
Four months ago, I started Nuvaring after more than five years of abstinence. After researching other forms of birth control, this one was the obvious choice for me. Not only would I not have to worry about taking a pill every day, but I’d been on it five years earlier, with no side effects. The only catch was that, with two months until my insurance kicked in, I would have to pay out-of-pocket for this name brand prescription, because drug patents last for 20 years before generics can be produced.* Not wanting to risk the potential consequences of switching my hormonal birth control in such a short period, I bit the bullet and paid approximately $140 for Nuvaring, two months in a row.
Over the next four months, I experienced all of the perks of Nuvaring. I didn’t have to remember to take a pill every day. I had less extreme periods in every way. Neither Jake, nor I, ever felt the ring and it never slipped out. Most importantly, I never got pregnant. It seemed like the dream birth control. Why wasn’t everyone on this?!?

I told you all about my kidney infection in March, when I discussed the perils of life without health insurance. What started as a bladder infection that I couldn’t afford to treat, eventually led to my waking up alone on the bedroom floor with a fever too high to reach for my phone and call for help. Eventually, the antibiotics took hold, and I got better. Finally, in April, I was officially insured… just in time for my new gynecologist to tell me I had another infection and treat me with yet more antibiotics, despite my lack of symptoms. I thought it was strange, that I’d get two UTI’s in one month. I, of course, looked up preventative measures and took action. So, it was much to my dismay when I recognized the same bladder infection symptoms I’d had two months prior, in the middle of May. This time, I was able to see a doctor for just $20, which seemed worth it to avoid missing more work. Jake just bought the Trojan multipack, because each time I was on antibiotics, we couldn’t count on hormonal birth control. It was becoming frustrating that I was even on birth control, if we were using condoms, anyway. I mean, I knew different forms of birth control came with their side effects, so why was I even taking the risk? Hmmm. On that thought…

Where were these problems coming from, when I’d never had any similar issues, in my life? Could Nuvaring be the culprit? None of my doctors had suggested there could be any connection between the two. So, I took to the Internet and read all about Nuvaring side effects, only to find nothing relevant listed, even in the rarer cases. Over the course of the next week, I drank my water and waited for the antibiotics to take hold… and then called the doctor’s office to ask if I should’ve seen results, one week later. They verified that I did have an infection, but seeemed surprised that the antibiotics I’d been given hadn’t helped. I wasn’t to worry, though, because the antibiotics they prescribed this time would surely do the trick… until they didn’t and I was told that, at this point, a UTI couldn’t be the problem.

I took to the Internet again. If it wasn’t a UTI, why was I experiencing so much pain? For a moment, I feared bladder cancer, only to calm myself when I discovered this is a diagnosis usually reserved for the elderly. Upon further research, I found that UTI symptoms can be attributed to chlamydia and gonorrhea, both. No part of me suspected Jake of cheating, but I knew he’d been with women before me and that neither of these STI’s necessarily caused any symptoms in men. So, I made an appointment to get tested. Any frustration I had for Jake, I’d reserve for after I found out I had anything and even then, it would just be for the fact that he hadn’t made sure he was clean. I’ll be honest. At this point, I hoped I had chlamydia. I’d have caught it in time to avoid any long term damage and the treatment was just another antibiotic. Sure, we’d have to use condoms again, but we’d mostly been doing that anyway.
On the Tuesday after Memorial Day, I got the call. I was clean of all STI’s and UTI’s… and I was devastated by this news. Over the next week, I became convinced that I’d never feel better, again. This was just how I’d live my life. Further research had told me that the remaining likely diagnosis was interstitial cystitis, a chronic disorder that may or may not respond to different kinds of treatment. The probiotics my doctor recommended seemed to have helped a bit, but I was still in so much pain, I was trying not to cry in frustration and discomfort in the bathroom at work. I longed for the last time I felt well and started to wonder when that even was. I counted back and made a surprising realization: the last time I felt better was the last time I took my Nuvaring out to have a period. I’d skipped the one before that, after being told by my gynecologist that this was okay, but Jake had disapproved. It didn’t sound healthy to him for me to be stacking my birth control without a break. Since my fertility directly effects him, I complied and took it out… and by the end of the week, the pain was mostly gone. My prayers had been answered, but only briefly, because it quickly returned. At this point, however, I’d just stopped complaining and was suffering in silence.

For one final bout of research, I Googled “Nuvaring and UTI”… only to find numerous mentions of women who’d experienced both UTI’s and general urinary problems without diagnosis of an infection. Over and over again, I read stories on medical forums of women being in such pain that they couldn’t function or having multiple UTI’s in just a few months, only to find that discontinuing their usage of Nuvaring almost immediately relieved the symptoms. I was torn. If I’d had these problems and there was even a chance they could be related to my birth control, surely my doctor would tell me. I’d just wait until my current Nuvaring was finished and then try something else.
That night, as I lay in bed crying, knowing my symptoms would keep me up all night, again, I texted Jake to inform him that we’d be using condoms for awhile. I was sorry I hadn’t discussed it with him beforehand, but I couldn’t do it anymore and was willing to try taking out my Nuvraing on the hopes that my symptoms would clear up. I’d have taken an unplanned pregnancy over the pain, at that point. After sending that text, I trashed my $140 value birth control, that I’d only had in for two weeks. The next day, I called my gynecologist, requesting a different prescription. When I told the nurses my symptoms, however, they scoffed at the idea that my Nuvaring could be the culprit. The most I was able to get anyone to admit, was that women had complained of increased discharge and there was a possibility that that might cause an infection. When I picked up the new birth control, I got a more reasonable response from the pharmacist, with a bit less eye rolling. She said she hadn’t heard of these symptoms, but it made perfect sense to her.
It has been one week since I tearfully trashed my Nuvaring and I thank God numerous times a day that the pain is gone. I finally feel well, for the first time in over a month. I can go hours without having to pee, only getting up once or twice in the night. I no longer experience any pain. The only time I’ve had any such persistent symptoms in the last several days was when I tried to use my menstrual cup, because taking out my ring started my period. I am not a doctor. I cannot substantiate my claims that there is a connection between my urinary problems and my use of Nuvaring. I cannot say that this is even common enough that Nuvaring should say so, when it might be a dream contraceptive for other women. What I can say is that Nuvaring and the menstrual cup are both held in by pressing against the walls of the vagina and both caused me pain. I can tell you that I have had three substantiated UTI’s since March. I can tell you that I have never had any problems, such as these, until one month after starting Nuvaring. I can tell you that my doctors, the people I am supposed to trust with my health, never even suggested that the new prescription I was on might be the cause of the sudden problems I was experiencing, in a related area. When I suggested this, I was gaslighted and treated as another obnoxious Web-MD reader. What I can tell you is that I will forever take my doctors’ opinions with a grain of salt, after this miserable experience. What I can tell you is that the pain is gone and I will no longer be using my vagina as a pocket for my birth control.

This post is six and a half years old and it still gets regular traffic, so I’m providing an update.

After a few months of on-again/off-again bladder problems, I saw a female urologist who validated all of my concerns. She performed an ultrasound to confirm no other issues and told me that it absolutely made sense that any birth control would cause bladder problems, because the bladder is extremely sensitive to hormones. It also made sense to her that a menstrual cup would aggravate an already sensitive urethra.
I was given free samples of the medication Myrbetriq, which is usually promescribed only to the elderly, and instructed to take them as needed. I had a Mirena IUD implanted a few weeks later and never had a single issue in the two years I was on it.
I’m now married with three children and rarely have any need of the Myrbetriq samples, despite having been pregnant twice.

http://www.fda.gov/Drugs/DevelopmentApprovalProcess/ucm079031.htm

I’m not going to my ten year reunion.

Gail sent me the guest list, via screen cap on Facebook, because we are our generation.
Me: “Nate Walker and Keith Thompson? I’d rather be part of the human centipede, it sucks less ass.”

Lacy: “Are you going?”
Me: “Nate Walker. Country club. Hors d’oeuvres. It’s like a Mad Lib from Hell.”

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My response was likely expected, considering I started publicly insisting that the class of ’06 could kiss my ass if they thought I was paying to see them, the day I found out that the class of ’05 was charging for their reunion. In fact, I’m pretty sure the last time I actually expressed any genuine interest in attending my ten year reunion, was ten years ago, when I couldn’t wait to see how everyone turned out.

I’m apparently alone in this line of thinking, however. Everyone is adamant that I’ll regret not going. With the way Jake talks about his high school days, you’d think he went to fucking Hogwarts, he had such a magical experience, so naturally, he wanted me to go to my own reunion. He even offered to pay for everything. Though Catherine and I did attend the same high school, we kind of didn’t. It wasn’t until after college that the two of us started bonding and though we were friendly enough in our earlier days, we didn’t even run in adjacent crowds. While I sat with the drama kids, band nerds, and AP students on the auditorium steps, Catherine regaled her friends with tales of her groupie weekends with local Christian bands. We weren’t hostile, but we weren’t besties, either. Surely Gail would sympathize with me, though, right? I mean, we had all of the exact same friends and nemeses, the same misfit hobbies, a near identical lack of regard for basic fashion. Nope. Gail was even looking forward to the reunion, before deciding that she really didn’t want to go play the role of The Girl Whose Baby Died two days after what would’ve been Grace’s birthday.

So, why am such a Negative Nancy about all of this? Well, it’s certainly not that I hate these people. On the contrary, I’ve really enjoyed looking at pictures of their crazy college days, their wedding dresses, and their new homes. I’ve read all about their infertility battles and wondered how exactly someone manages to take an artsy picture from the bathroom floor, where they’ve supposedly just been vomiting. I’ve both awwed over their baby pictures and scoffed over the cost of the new high chair. All of this is precisely why I’ve no desire to actually speak to any of my old classmates, though. What could they possibly tell me that I haven’t already read, in detail, because nothing is private anymore? I’ve spent the last ten years watching everyone from high school grow up and get over themselves and start their lives… all from the comfort of my own home. So why on Earth would I pay (or let Jake pay) $70 to do the same damn thing, while wearing pants? Facebook has rendered the high school reunion completely redundant, even if I don’t consider the fact that almost no one that I would like to catch up with is going… for all of the same reasons.

“You should go and show everyone how skinny you are, now!” – All of My Aunts

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It’s really quite sweet that they see me this way, in comparison to my 18-year-old self and I’m sure a lot of people will attend with a similar mindset. I could wear a cute dress and bring my hardworking oil man along, flaunting my master’s degree and Supervisory Librarian position to all of those people who bullied me, but… I just don’t care enough about what these strangers think, to put in all that effort. Instead, this weekend, I’m going to celebrate my one year anniversary with Jake. I’m going to wish my Gramma a happy birthday and check on my best friend to see how she’s coping with the grief she still feels. At some point, I’m sure I’ll get on Facebook and smile over the reunion pictures, glad that everyone is having a good time. I don’t need to peek behind the curtain and make new memories of old acquaintances, though. I’m just too busy with the present.

 

My heart belongs to a guy whose job is kind of up in the air.

Me: “I got your anniversary present.”
Jake: “Oh yeah?”
Me: “Yeah. It’s a t-shirt that says ‘My heart belongs to a librarian.’ I got a matching one that says ‘My heart belongs to a guy whose job is kind of up in the air.’

I once refused to date anyone who worked in oil. I also refused to date anyone under 6′ tall, losing his hair, and who didn’t like cats, but the oil thing was actually pretty reasonable. You see, growing up, my dad worked for the electric company; which meant that during storm season, he was gone.

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I remember how stressed out my mom always was during those months. She worked full time as a nurse and the same weather that called my dad out, called her out. She was never the disciplinarian or very organized, so it was overwhelming for her to be left on five acres with two kids. It sucked for my brother and I, too. If we had a spring recital, my dad probably wasn’t going to make it. When he was home, he was either sleeping because he was so exhausted or screaming at us because he was so exhausted and we were too little to contain our excitement that dad was home. I don’t want that and when I was dating, I wasn’t willing to purse a relationship that would lead to that.

For those of you who didn’t spend your free time hanging out at oil rigs in high school, I’ll sum the industry up for you. The highs are high and the lows are low. So, as an adult, I’ve gotten to see family and friends spend wildly for years, only to turn around and try to sell their fifty thousand dollar cars, when things take a turn. The only people who succeed in oil, are those who acknowledge both extremes and prepare. Those guys do exist… but they’re usually over 40 and saw the results of the last downturn.

When Jake came along, his online profile said that he was a Fluid Engineer and this wasn’t what he planned to do for the rest of his life. He had a degree and a job and apparently aspirations for more. He didn’t judge me for only being a half time librarian, at the time, so I figured it was only fair to give him a shot. Obviously, I’m glad I did.

Me: “I love you.”
Jake: “I love you, too.”
Me: “You’re everything I need and want… only shorter.”

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While I’m thrilled with all that is Jake, there’s much to be desired in all that is Jake’s career. His schedule has been wonky for months, meaning that sometimes I think we’ll get to see each other daily this week, only for him to leave the next morning and return five days later. When we do see each other,  it’s not uncommon to watch one twenty-minute Netflix show and go to bed. A couple of weeks ago, I finally broached the subject.

Me: “What’s the goal here? This sucks, but if it’s leading you to a career you want, fine. I support you, but what do you want?
Jake: “I guess… I guess I just wanted to work hard for a few years, while I’m young, save a lot of money and then be able to do what I want with my life, without having to worry about whether or not it will support me and my family.”

He went on to tell me that he enjoys teaching people who want to learn, but he knows there’s no money in that. He’d like to save the money he’d need to live debt free, purchasing his first home outright. Though he’s been demoted from Fluid Engineer to truck driver and now to solids control, which is just manual labor, he wants to see if oil picks back up by the end of the year, as the higher ups have said it will. If not, he’s willing to get out and pursue something different… which is good because he’s working 12 hours days and ends them far too exhausted to enjoy life. One night, as we cuddled in bed at 9:30, because he had to leave my place at 4:00 in the morning, he kissed my shoulder and told me…

Jake: “I promise this won’t last past the end of the year. I know it sucks, but I won’t be making terrible money.”
Me: “I don’t care how much money you make. I don’t want to be alone all the time, when we’re married.”
Jake: “You won’t be.”
Me: “What if oil goes back up, you get the office job you’ve always wanted, and you’re home every night, then it falls again? We’ll have small children and I’m not telling them daddy won’t be at their birthday parties.”
Jake: “Those guys are different, babe. I’ve planned financially and I won’t get myself in the same place they are, having to keep up with all of their debt. If that happens, I’ll be able to to get out.”
Me: “Good. If I had to choose between you being home every night at $40,000 a year, or being two weeks on and two weeks off at $200,000, I’d choose the former. I don’t need $80 manicures and designer handbags. I need you. I’d rather you go to the kids’ recitals with me than drive them alone in a Lexus.”

The next morning, Jake woke at 3:30 and drove an hour to Kingston, to do 12 hours of manual labor on a rig. I remember being married to a man who fabricated jobs and reading the Facebook posts of women complaining that their husbands work too hard. Oh, how I’d have given anything for that problem. Today, knowing that when I get home, Jake will be there, likely with just enough energy for conversation, I can do one of the things I love most. I can say that I was right. It’s a great problem to have a man who carefully plans for the future. It’s a great problem to have a man who works too hard to ensure his financial security. It’s a great problem to have a man who’s not above doing manual labor, despite his degree.  So, I’ll keep my end of the bargain and be supportive. One day, I’ll forgo the new car for the one with 40,000 miles on it. I’ll save the expensive massages for late term pregnancy. I’ll continue to paint my own nails. In turn, I’m confident Jake will keep his end of the bargain and be there when we’re married with children, because he’s never let me down.

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He thought I was joking.

 

I will never be dainty.

Today, as I was doing my makeup at a stoplight, I realized that I was about to put concealer on what was not a skin imperfection, but barbeque sauce.

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As I prayed to get one more red light, so I could finish doing my makeup, I started to think about the role models I grew up with, in media. A child of the 90s, these included Kelly Kapowski, Topanga Lawrence, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Buffy Summers, and even Lizzie McGuire. As the style of the day dictated, each of them had well-coordinated, brightly colored outfits, perfect bubble gum pink lipstick, and intricate hairstyles requiring those tiny rubber bands they use to attach bows to a poodle’s ears.

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These trends may be the stuff of Buzzfeed posts now, but unless it was a defining feature of the episode, such as that time Buffy had grass in her hair, these girls were nothing but coordinated and adorable, regardless of style. Lizzie may have struggled to fit in with the cool crowd, but she did it with perfectly crimped hair.

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As I entered my late teens and early twenties, I longed to be more like Rory Gilmore and Blair Waldorf, with their preppy, tailored jackets, headbands, plaid, and perfectly timed topical references. I wanted to wear subtle makeup, designer prints, and kitten heels while discussing college life.

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I, of course, never mastered any of the above.

I once burned toothpaste into my hair with a straightener.

I regularly wear oversized t-shirts over my work clothes, because I can’t trust myself to drink a cup of coffee without spilling it.

I frequently use the word “shankraped.”

I don’t own white clothes. As much as I’d love to be the girl in a white sundress and strappy sandals, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that it is never going to happen.

I’ve gotten through an entire day, wearing a dress that zipped up the back, before I noticed the zipper under my chin.

I make “that’s what she said” jokes to my Gramma… and then try to explain them.

I’ve notified my loved ones that if they ever find me in a bathtub full of blood, it wasn’t a suicide attempt. I just never mastered shaving my legs.

I’ve done the Sign of the Cross in thanksgiving after realizing my dress was tucked into my panties before the interview.

I walked like a newborn deer for all four of the months I tried to wear heels.

My makeup comes from the drug store.

I don’t trust myself to use a styling wand without taking out an eye.

My punctuality is based on how many green lights I can catch.

I’ve noticed I’m wearing two different shoes, at work… something I’ve been told is unique to extremely pregnant women.

I look at least four sizes larger in plaid or argyle.

I’m far too cheap to buy the pricey, sexy undies.

I will always ruin sweet moments with an inappropriate joke.

Some days, I apply my eyeliner and just go with it, even though I look like a panda bear.

Gail says she can always tell which dressing room I’m in, by following the sounds of crashing.

I’m afraid to go shopping alone, because more than once, I’ve gotten stuck in a top and been unable to get out.

Today, my style most resembles Jess from The New Girl, but at least she’s supposed to be uncoordinated. I mean, sure, she’s never endured the awkwardness of dry humping someone while wearing a skort, but it’s at least a little closer. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I come from a long line of opinionated, boisterous, and often wildly inappropriate women. I buy size 10 shoes, can’t wear button up anything because I’m so broad-chested, and I cuss like a sailor. All of that runs in the family, too. I’ll never be the girl with the perfect hair and makeup, because I like my sleep. I’ll never wear the latest fashions, because I like my money. I’ll always be a little too loud, which is fortunate, because my best friend is getting married and has already refused to give me the microphone at her wedding. I’ll never be the debutante who spends two hours getting ready. Simply put, I will never be dainty… and that’s okay.

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