My son said something snarky recently - I forget what - and I said, "Do you really want to upset a woman with diagnosed hormonal imbalances?"
"Why does diagnosed make a difference?" he wanted to know.
"Because I can introduce it as evidence in my defense during my trial for assaulting or murdering you," I said.
"AH!" he replied.
(Disclaimer: That was sarcasm. My son thought it was funny. He does not fear for his safety, and I do not plan to harm him. I hate that I have to point this stuff out, but the Internet is a crazy place full of crazy people, so I feel the need to qualify my statements, lest someone freak out.)
Anyway, frequent office visits means sitting in waiting rooms reading magazines. I really should remember to bring a book. I get stuck reading things I have no real interest in, like golf or fly fishing magazines. Don't get mad - I have nothing against golf or fly fishing, and being outdoors and active is good. I'm just not a golfer or fly fisherman.
On my own time, I don't read anything resembling fashion magazines, and I'm not big on celebrity gossip, so many magazines aimed at people of my gender and/or age don't do it for me, either. I have zero interest in "who wore it best?" or "the hottest trends for the next season!" Consequently, when I get stuck reading these things I'm just freaked out for days by the idea that anybody actually places value on this stuff.
I just saw a magazine article on "celebrities who shouldn't wear sandals," showing us closeup photos of "gross" and "ugly" feet. Are you joking? We're going to mock people's feet? What planet are we on?
Now my podiatrist's concern makes a bit more sense. I recently had the bone structure in both feet rebuilt, and bone screws put in. Surgery means scars. I am OK with this. It's life. The podiatrist, however, kept assuring me that the scars will fade, and if they get raised and ropy, he can trim them down. He even rushed to assure me that my bruised toes, still black and purple a week after surgery, would fade. "And that's normal. It's not like we manhandled you." I couldn't imagine getting freaked out over bruises or scars. Again, this is expected! I finally pointed out that I have scars across my throat - I am so completely not worried about scars on my feet.
This is good, because the nurses said things like, "Wow, those are some gnarly scars." Yes, they are. They're large, raised and purple. Eventually, the purple will fade to red and then normal flesh tone, but that could take a year or two still. I know my skin.
There's a crescent shaped scar on my ankle, as well, from the same operation.
I sincerely cannot bring myself to care that someone else might find my feet "ugly." It is just not a part of my reality. Do people have no actual content to their lives?
My husband sat next to me, trying to concentrate on his phone (probably surfing Facebook or playing Ingress) while he sat with me at the lab, waiting for my name to be called. I was reading a women's magazine and trying to keep my spirits up, despite not wanting to be there. So, I looked for the humor in the situation. I kept calling something out of the magazine to his attention. I'd say, "Look, honey!" and then read some headline like - I swear, this is an actual headline - "Win At Life!"
"I could win at life! It says so!" I said, trying not to laugh out loud. My poor husband grunted and tried not to encourage me.
"Apparently, geometric patterns will give me a 'totally modern vibe,'" I say, practically snorting. He glared at me.
"Look, honey, look! I can find out 'The Secrets to Sexy Legs!'" He grunted again. "Then again, you're not a leg man, " I say.
"And it's a good thing," he responds, "now that you've put that big dent in yours."
Ooh. Touche.' This is a clear "stop talking to me" signal. He's lucky that I'm not touchy, and I laughed. The same operation that rebuilt my foot lengthened my tendon, so I have a scar, about two inches long, on my left calf. It does dent significantly inward, kind of like a big dimple. My worry was that I'd cut it while shaving, but it's been months, and that hasn't happened, so I don't think about it much anymore.
But apparently, it's not sexy.
Sitting in another waiting room days later, without my husband, I kept finding more to laugh at. "Be Your Own Stylist, All Month Long!" Apparently their article will show me how. I contemplate this; I've been dressing myself for years - nay, decades - now. Apparently, I should claim to be my "own stylist" instead of simply feeling that I get dressed unassisted. I should add this job title to my mental list.
An article on some fashion show or other features a photo of apparently stylish pants, and urges me to "Stride like the free spirit that you are!" I worry that laughing out loud in an ob/gyn's waiting room will upset the other patrons.
Another fashion show featured dresses. Here's a direct quote: "You obviously become the focal point of the room when you walk in wearing this."
Does anyone want to be the focal point of the room, I wonder. Then I think back to attending a formal event. As one couple walked in, the woman next to me gasped, "I think I've been upstaged." The newcomer had on a very showy, gold gown, and my companion was not happy about it.
Huh. I guess people do want to be their appearance the center of attention. Again, I can't imagine. Even when I was younger and thinner, all I wanted was to not be wearing the least appropriate thing in the room. Now, I'm pretty sure that I occasionally am wearing something that doesn't fit in; for instance, my husband once mistook my dress shoes for my son in law's. I just no longer care if anyone's upset about it.
The ads were just ludicrous. "With the right lipliner and my sexy (name brand) bra, I won't be easily forgotten." HA HA HA HA! Yeah, that's the secret to being unforgettable! The right bra! HA HA HA!
But they're being serious. Truly. This campaign must work. It's a big, glossy, expensive ad in a big, glossy, expensive magazine.
I learned my lesson. I bought a paperback book to carry.
If you see me chewing my cheeks, with my eyes watering, while I'm in a waiting room, it means that I forgot said book, and I'm reading magazines again. Sorry.
