Friday, June 27, 2014

Whoever Said That Baby Steps Were Easy Is Wrong. So Incredibly Wrong.

I went to the pool with my son, Alex.  I knew - and so did he - that since this would be my first walk to the pool since last summer, and my first real walk anywhere, that I would need to take things very slow and easy.  Walking to the pool is fine (it's walking back; wet, sweaty and hot, that sucks). We did it and though I tired 3/4 of the way there, I took a breather and then continued until we reached the pool.

A much warmer day than the last trip to the pool, Al and I were sweaty and tired. We both opted for shade instead of sun. We unpacked, and soon I couldn't bear it any longer.

"Don't dive in."  Alex warned. I agreed, but since the well was right there, I contemplated. "Don't do anything that'll make you regret it later, Ma."

I love that boy of mine.

I sat at the edge of the 3 feet and then got in.

The water was amazing.  Perfect.  See what waiting a few hot days can do to pool water?  It was sheer (ha) bliss. I watched Alex jump off of the board.  I then decided to try to swim half a lap.  I swam 3/4 of it, then was forced to stop.  Abdominal pain began in earnest. I cursed under my breath.  I told Al that I would now just enjoy the water and sun without over-exerting myself.  He thanked me.

We later sunned and had a snack.  That's when I noticed my hands shaking.  I cursed again, but to myself as I had a neighbor and her small daughter I'm sure would not appreciate my words of disgust.  Al asked if I was ready to go home and I nodded.  We packed up and just as we were about to leave the pool, I began shaking.  I told Alex that I needed sugar.  I bought myself a small regular coke.  Weird because I not only ate a substantial lunch and my glucose read 179, but I also had some pretzel chips at the pool just to keep my sugar from plummeting.

Guess it wasn't enough.

Halfway home, I began to feel better but then the pain began.  Lower ab pain and pain from my past surgeries.  By the time I got inside, I was sweaty and shaky still.  I tested and it read 71.  Not exactly hypo, but getting there.  At 70, I begin to feel the hypo(glycemic) shakes beginning. Thank God for pretzels and regular Coke.  I may have passed out.  Another note for my endocrinologist.

And again, now the pain has set in.  It felt so good in the pool, and especially with Alex, my water bug, but I guess I'm just not ready to walk to the pool just yet. As soon as I finish this entry, I'll put something on for supper for the three of us, (Rob gets to see the Ewes play courtesy of Pandora), and then it's percocet time... dammit.  I hate that shit.  I hate pain, too...  Gotta pick my hatred.

So there ya go.  Oh, we did end up moving into the sun.  I am still lighter than my husband. I still cannot have that.  So, I worked on it a bit, today.  Almost there:
Until next time,


Monday, June 23, 2014

It's Just (black) Hair, Right?

I am in a dilemma.  Not a serious one, but a big one.

I love the look of black hair. Blue-black, slick, shiny hair.  My natural hair color - at least for the first 27 years of my life - was black/brown.

I hated it.

Too straight and too dark.

I did all I could to change it. I began when I was 13 by boiling onion skins and trying to highlight it.  I then discovered Sun-In.  Yeah, that worked... a little.  I then took the (dumb) plunge; I tried combing straight peroxide onto it.  Yeah.  No.  Not enough.  Long story short, I ended up pouring not one, but two bottles of the stuff onto my hair. I did this at my cousin's house.  We were both really wanting to do something drastic. She didn't. But she did walk with me to the local 7-11 to buy peroxide.  She didn't try to talk me out of buying two bottles.  Perhaps she thought one was for her hair.  Nope.  Then, when I was done, she simply muttered; "Uh, Mary..."

Yep. Orange just like Greg's.

When I came home from their house, I quickly walked into my bedroom.  My mom came in and her smile faded.  No, she didn't cry.  She yelled.  I'll leave that to your imagination.

Now, I have always loved extreme hair stuff; colors, cuts.  I have always wanted a really short, almost shaved look.  I tried it one time and I guess the shape of my head just doesn't facilitate that type of cut.  So I gave up on the short stuff and went long.

Let's now fast-forward to the present.  Kind of.  In the not so distant past, I decided to go gray.  100% me.  No dye.  I liked it.  My kids loved it.  So did my husband.  So did strangers.  I still like it.  The only problem is that it's no longer grey/white.

Now, it's blue/black.

I had been playing with the idea of going black for a few months.  I have had a really bad year, physically and one day, when things were really bad and my emotions were at an all-time frenzied mess, I did it;  I dyed my hair black.  Blue black.

It was a big shock when I first saw it.  My husband hated it. Black is dark, isn' it? .  Yeah.  Very.  As the days went on, I grew to really like it, more and more.  It showed off my eyes, I thought.  In photos, I could really see my Mexican/Spanish side, now. I really liked that.

I began reading how to care for dyed black hair.  The more I read, the more discouraged and regretful I became.  I learned that dying your hair black is way more damaging than bleaching it.

It's true.

My hair feels like straw.  If I don't condition it for like 5 minutes after I shampoo it, I can't even brush it, let alone get a comb through it.  But that's not the worst part.  Now, my roots are coming in.  There is no way, as lovely at is it, that I will dye the roots black.  No freakin' way. So, what to do?  Let the gray grow back and keep cutting it?  I'm thinking yeah.  I hate to say this, but I simply cannot afford to get it done professionally right now.  I know, I sound cheap and tacky.  Whatever.  I keep hearing Dolly Parton as Truvy in Steel Magnolias saying, "I can spot a bottle-job from a mile away."  Yeah well. Whatever.  Medical crap has made me poor... okay not poor, but I certainly cannot afford to shell out $150 to repair what I did to it.  Yes, I know I ruined it.  I accept full responsibility.

I'm letting the black grow out.  It won't be quiet the ombre-look, but at least it will be free of chemicals.  I may go back to brown.  Maybe.  Some say I look much younger with brown... others say I look sexy with the silver.  It's all opinion.  Mine is the most important. So, the next time you see me, I will definitely have some silver streaks in with the black.

Oh, and I also want to apologize to my mom.  She too used to dye her white locks black.  I used to give her so much flack about it.  I'm sorry, Ma.

Until next time,