So. Woke up at 8AM and eventually had some coffee and got my pa-kua uniform together. I called the car service at 9:50. This place knows me. I call them about the same time every week, and occasionally other times as well.
And they said, "On the way." So I got my gym bag and my snood and kissed Jonathan goodbye and ran down the stairs to wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And did I mention waiting?
Note: class begins at 10AM, and it's about five minutes away unless you hit really bad traffic.
At 10:05, I called them again. They said, "Two seconds."
At 10:15, I've gotten angry and I'm ready to cry. I'd just taken my cellphone out and gotten the number out of speeddial when the car arrived. I slammed the minivan door when I got in and started yelling at the driver. He scolded me about "breaking his car."
And then I started crying for real. He tried to reassure me (calling me "mami") that we'll be there in seconds, but I know this trip, and I was already very late. I cried the entire trip, pausing only to tell him he missed the turn he should have taken. See, the dojo is on Ave I, but Ave I is blocked between Coney Island Ave (where we were) and Nostrand Ave (where we were going) by the subway, and while Ave J goes all the way through, it's a very busy shopping street, and today is Thursday, which means it's extra busy - full of trucks and double cars and cars parking and unparking. The best thing to do is to make the right on Ave K, which solves both problems. He drove past Ave K, and even Ave J, and turned on Ave I, and then made another right and a left to get onto the busy J. *Sigh*.
I get there 25 minutes late for an hour class. I changed, still in tears - crying is like inertia for me. I don't do it easily, but once I do, I have a hard time stopping. I missed the running, the crunches and the pushups, and all the movements. Which means I missed the complete warmup.
I'm late, although not that *that* late, often enough through my own fault. This time it wasn't my fault, and it was unacceptable. What if I'd had an appointment instead? I might have had to reschedule and pay for the missed appointment.
I maybe should have gone tonight instead, but I was waiting. And waiting. And did I mention the inertia thing? Applies to more than tears.
Also. I had another appointment today - my half yearly trip to the dermatologist.
Seven or so years ago, I began developing hives from any sort of pressure on my skin. I had both a viral infection and walking pneumonia at about the same time, plus I just finished my third and final IVF attempt - and we knew it would be the final one, having more than maxed out our insurance and our patience. All of that plus the hormones and stress probably knocked my immune system into overdrive. I *itched* all the time. I tried cortisone creams, but it was driving me nuts. Also, I was coughing a lot. So, New Year's Day, I went to my internist, who said, "You sound like you have walking pneumonia. Have these heavy duty antibiotics and, oh. The reason you came to see me? Try Seldane - I've given you antibiotics that won't interact with it."
The Seldane worked immediately. After the pneumonia and the grieving were over - no more IVFs meant no more trying for biological child, and that's worthy of grieving - and a brief vacation in Boston, I began going to an allergist tofigure it out, and he just ended up sending me to my dermatologist. Who prescribed zyrtec and Allegra (which was Seldane), and a cortisone lotion that I should use sparingly.
At this point, I take the Zyrtec only, and that only every couple of days, and as much for hay fever and cats as for the hives. The hives are still there, but they don't come out nearly as often or as badly. He's pleased. However, I've also had several moles removed by him - my husband is now good at examining my back for changes and at taking care of the wounds. This time, though, nothing worthy of removal. Yay!
He also greets me with a big smile, says, "Hello, darlink!" to hear me laugh, and we talked about comic books. And he's my age, but he looks twelve. I like him. It made up for the lousy car service.
I had lunch at a kosher deli called "Mr. Broadways" and went to Macy's in search of yoga pants. Even extra-large yoga pants were size 16. What? Bigger women aren't entitled to dress comfortably while they salute the sun? Or maybe they just shouldn't do yoga?
And I went home.