This week I've been practicing the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
I spent three hours at the hairdresser's yesterday (I'm not a blonde anymore!), spouting obscenities with a maniac colourist who's been promiscuous in more countries than I have.
Today, I'm cashing in the remarkable gift certificate that my coworkers raised for me. I'm stepping foot for the first time into the H*lt Renfr*w on Bloor, and heading straight down to the Est*ee La*der spa for, get this: a tailored one-hour facial, a one-hour pedicure, and a one-hour massage.
Yup, I'm spending three hours surrounded by anorexic/neurotic superficial women, and letting them touch me all over with their shallow, shallow hands.
I'm told that it's addictive and that I'm going to feel thoroughly pampered.
I am feeling thoroughly flattered at the hugeness of the gift and the sentiment of my coworkers (so long as it isn't disgust at my frump-factor) who I am attempting to see next week, but I'm also clearly remembering the last $100 facial I had and how it burned and nearly sent me into a claustrophobic violence spree at being left on a table with my eyes glooped shut, while my skin stung and disenfranchised whales burped their despair through tin(n)y speakers.
Speaking of returning to work, I'm determined to try it next week despite the scepticism on the part of the physiotherapist, my boss, and OB as to whether I should wait until after the holidays.
I've been having nightmares all week about my 8am start on Monday.
In true monstre style I'm doing it in full maniac mode. I'll be not only stressed about the new people at the office, the old politics, and everyone's pity; I'll also be in full birthday blues (which hit me like so many rusted freight trains) AND PMSing.
Brave little idiot, aren't I?
Monday and Tuesday will be spent in some posh hotel undergoing project management training, and it's been agreed all around that only if I can handle the strain of being surrounded by corporate folks and being muscle-taught in a chair for two sets of eight hours, will I be returning to the office on Wednesday. If I can manage that, my boss has still ordered me to take Friday off for rest, to take lots of breaks and not stay too late (heh). If not, nobody's calling the EI folks to tell them I'm back at work until I'm firmly in the swing of things the Monday after. Otherwise, I'll behave myself and listen and postpone my return to January.
Still, I'm nervous. I'm nervous that I'm still too emotionally twitchy to handle the drama bitch queen, and the thick politics. I'm nervous that my caffeine-free self won't be able to handle the workload of before. I'm nervous that I've become too dumb and too slow to do my job as brilliantly as before. I'm worried that they won't worship me anymore. (I fully realize how retarded and arrogant that sounds)
Oddly enough, the window company just called. They're finally ready to replace the mismatched bathroom window pane from the five new windows we had installed last August. Looks like I'm working from home on the Thursday of my very first week back. Who knows, it might just be an excellent escape.
For those readers who have apparently been waiting for the doctors theories as to my mystery infection (and who are sweet enough to telephone long distance just to chastise me for not writing about it), I'm afraid there's not much to tell. I had more blood taken yesterday with the usual bruising and misadventures. The results of the one from two weeks ago were inconclusive. I still have way too high a white cell count, and it may or may not be dropping really slow or it may be just sticking around permanent-like. (hence the regular fortnight visit to the guy with the needles)
My back isn't feeling better but I'm doing my excercises to the very letter (not too often and not skipping a single session) and physiotherapy regularly and hoping for the best whilst steeling myself to the possibility of having to live with back pain for the rest of my life.
As for pregnancy news, despite not having any autopsy results or getting any feedback from the fetal medicine folks at all, I'm taking the "will you just tell me if the partial results indicate any reason to not get pregnant again" silence to mean that we can start bracing ourselves for morning sickness as soon as our hearts can handle it. I don't fancy the idea of walking into nine months of backaches with an already injured back, but the physiotherapist is giving me regular updates as to when she thinks I will be able to carry that sort of load and you never know. Despite the soreness I'm experiencing now at having spent an hour in this computer chair; there's still hope. Lots, and lots, of hope.