Some time last year, oh, around October, I realized I have this really incredible insurance that I'm paying out the wachoo for every month. And MixMan already got his cochlear implant, and they paid all but around $300 of the $60,000 of that, so I started thinking that maybe I should be taking advantage of that spiffy, pay-out-the-wachoo insurance and get some stuff done. Particularly since you never know when my mouth is going to get away from me and get me fired.
So. Although little Firefighter Girl and Rock Star babies would be beyond cute and incredibly amazing, as far as babies go, after some brief discussion about the possibility of same and then some shared horrified looks between myself and Rock Star as that potential future loomed, and realizing that with Miss Diva turning 7 this summer I am only 11 years from freedom, and I'll be damned if I start over, I decided to get the tubes tied. And one of the reasons I decided, with Rock Star's input, to do that instead of him getting the old snip-snip (which he volunteered to do, and attempted, but because he is still young-ish and doesn't have kids of his own, his doc wouldn't refer him. Feh!) was because I also had really horrid varicose veins on the right leg, and apparently one of them was throwing clots. And you can't really get a doctor to take those out unless you promise you aren't going to get preggers again. So.
Tubal in October, laser ablation at the end of January.
Still had stitches in my right leg on valentine's day, when the Rock Star and I and a few of his friends went boarding. And- funny thing- I was really concerned about hurting my wrists, and even went so far as to check out some wrist guards that I ended up deciding were really pointless. But the wrists, as it turns out, weren't what I needed to worry about. So, second run down, I'm getting a little cocky because my turns are looking beautiful, and I make a turn from toe edge to heel edge and then catch just a little bit of ice on the slope, and suddenly I'm airborne, and then suddenly I'm not. I landed right smack in front of two 16 year old boys who, I notice, are wincing.
I won't kid you, I knocked the air out of myself, and I haven't done that since I was a kid and tried to polish my brother's chin-up bar while it was still mounted in the doorway. I finally rolled over and scooted to the side of the slope, where the Rock Star caught up to me and asked me some standard paramedic type questions. All I knew was that my whole chest hurt like hell, but I figured I'd just end up with bruised boobage. We headed up a different lift and by the time we made it to the top, I was having a hard time breathing because it hurt so bad, and every single turn, bump, and fall was excruciating. I am not proud to say, I yelled at the Rock Star. And his friend. And anyone else who would listen. And then I spent the rest of the time in the bar at the lodge, drinking and seething and hurting and generally feeling sorry for myself.
But it turns out, you see, that when I landed (on my mp3 player that was in my front pocket), I cracked ribs 6, 7, and 8 at the sternum, and then broke ribs 5 and 6 where the bone meets the costal cartilage right under my left breast. I could barely breathe for 2 weeks, and I would wake myself up in the middle of the night trying to roll over. Luckily, I'm mostly healed now.
All of this is a really, really long introduction to tell you that. . .I've gotten a little soft. I haven't run or worked out for months due to surgeries/pain/injuries, etc. And when I got on the scale on Monday, after realizing that my pants were feeling a little tight, I decided that was enough, by gum, and I'm going to become a Jillian Michaels convert.
That's right, people. Firefighter Girl is going to become a Shredhead. Thanks to
Motherhood Uncensored for the inspiration.
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