It’s come to this: I am now a person that owns a weekly pill organizer. You know, the plastic boxes that are divided into 7 compartments, one for each day of the week. Except mine has 14 compartments. That’s right: FOURTEEN. For morning and night. Apparently, I’m that sickly. And let me tell you, this pill box isn’t doing much for my self esteem. Not much at all. I’m going to have to hide it from Demetri. If he sees it, all romance will be gone from our mariage. Next thing you know, we’ll be hitting the early bird dinner buffetts, rubbing medicated ointment on each other before sundown, and calling it a night. In separate twin beds. Awesome.
It doesn’t help that I just canceled a 5 day trip with Demetri to San Francisco. He’s going for a conference and I was going to tag along. But I’ve been under the weather for 3 weeks and I’ve been straddling the line that separates depression from, uh, not-depression. It’s an exhausting place to be. I was looking forward to meeting Demetri’s west coast fam . . . but I just can’t do it. I can’t make the long flight. I can’t stay in an unfamiliar place. I can’t be alone for 9 hours a day in a new city. So I’m not going. Instead, Zoey and I are making the short flight to my parents’ home in South Carolina. Zoey will have a blast with The Grandparents and I will sleep and rest . . . and then sleep and rest some more. And I’ll probably eat a lot of good food too — coconut shrimp, key lime pie, curried chicken salad. I’ll sit in the sun. Read on the porch. Walk on the beach. And I’ll feel like a kid again — safe and cared for in my parents’ home. I’ll have to hide the pill box from them too — I don’t want them to think I’m all grown up. Not yet.
This is my pouty-face . . . in case you weren’t sure.