I am not good with pain—physical or emotional. I laugh inappropriately, I zone out, and I bare all my teeth in a pretty freaky ‘I’m OK—really I am’ grin. (Think: Disney's Beauty and the Beast. "Show me your debonaire smile..")
Last week I was sitting in the hospital emergency room, waiting to be seen for a leg injury. Nothing overly exciting had happened—during a fun visit to the cottage, I ripped my hamstring while waterskiing.
As I sat under the neon lights my head started spinning.
I confess, I didn’t pay much attention to the whole Beyonce pregnancy story this year. Even all the hype around the cute Blue Ivy Carter moniker didn’t really grab at me, but when I saw the words ‘Beyonce’ and ‘miscarriage’ pop up in our own Mummy Buzz, I couldn’t stop myself from taking a peek.
The other day I asked my parents if they’d had a chance to read my blog.
Eyes shifted, feet shuffled, lips pursed, and the excuses started to flow. My parents are many things—supportive and loving are high on the list—but they are not subtle. And they really suck at lying. It’s kind of endearing, actually.
"Okay, fine, but I didn't dump my purse out on the couch and invite everyone into my problems."
You know that line? It's in The Breakfast Club. Emilio Estevez says it to Ally Sheedy during their first 'getting to know you' teen-angst fuelled conversation. And it's how I feel right now.
