I Think I’m High Again

My gynecologist offers Botox now. Because everyone knows that vaginal exams and Botox injections go hand-in-hand. I’m assuming they mean Botox for foreheads, not Botox for vaginas. They don’t give Botox in vaginas. Do they? Because who would want that?

Still, I’m wondering where along the way in gynecology some doctor said, you know – I AM licensed to rake cervixes with little tiny instruments, catch babies, and perform hysterectomies, so… Maybe I should start offering Botox.

By the way, this didn’t keep me up last night. The lone fly in a 3,000-square-foot house did. Because one fly in a house always ends up in the bedroom when I’m trying to sleep. Except that it really didn’t, because I was already awake – testing relentless blood sugars.

I’m on drugs now, so mostly I’m sleeping better – thanks for asking. Not Botox. And not because I don’t want Botox, because if I had the guts and $2,000, I can assure you I’d have 3 less craters in my forehead. But I’m not vain. All the time.

I was going to say no to drugs, like Nancy Reagan made me promise when I was 12, but apparently I’m a better person on drugs. Less stabby. More happy.

These last several weeks of clean living were littered with other methods of coping, like wine, vodka, meltdowns, chest pains, and copious amounts of junk food. Once the Paxil finally melted out of my system, Medusa moved in, and it was dark and dangerous road for travelers. And that was just when I was alone.

Anyway, on a serious note, medication – not drugs – softens the edges of life. Contrary to what I write most of the time, I’m not a fan of medicating. I’ve even been known to suffer a headache rather than take ibuprofen. This time, however, I recognized a very basic and primal need to feel normal and not like I want to destroy walls and furniture. There’s bad moods, and then there’s Falling Down.

And speaking of falling down, I had a roommate in college who took Prozac. She was certifiable, but today it’s known as bipolar. When she took her meds, she was ordered and pleasant, but that went out the window when alcohol was added to the equation. She got us thrown out of the Violet Ball because she kept falling down on the dancefloor; the final straw was pulling her strapless gown down and exposing her breasts. When she “forgot” to take her meds, it was time to lock your doors and evacuate the vicinity. These memories are probably the primary reason I don’t really want to need medication.

Meanwhile, back in the parent drop-off lane…. the middle school has recently moved this lane to the rear of the building. I decided to drive Veruca on “inauguration day” – so that I’d learn the new system on the same day as everyone else. I’ve never seen so many cars in a drop-off. Ever.

There were teachers blocking the old drop-off line, holding up signs directing us to the rear driveway – which, by the way, is really a ONE-LANE driveway that now has to accommodate incoming and outgoing vehicles, a situation I am all too familiar with from cheer practice drop-off. The driveway opens up to a large square parking lot which is lined with cones so the morons know not to fuck up the system and a handful of teachers are standing around just in case they do anyway.

I said aloud to no one in particular (it’s not like Veruca cares anyway) as I watched the teachers standing around in the rain, I bet the teachers just love this. And the assistant principal was heading the front of the line, wildly waving his arms at cars like a runway signaler. The only thing he needed was one of those light wands. The whole thing struck me funny, and I was giggling to myself as I pulled away. I turned up the volume on the radio and Steve Winwood’s Back in the High Life was playing.




**Disclaimer: I don’t use the upgraded service; therefore, you will see ads at the bottom of my posts (ads I don’t see because I’m not you). As it has come to my attention that certain ads may not align with my world views – I am compelled to add the following statement until further notice.




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