Best eye makeup EVER.
Wait, that sign has words?? My whole world view was rocked one day in 5th grade when my parents took me to get my eyes checked. It turned out that not only was I near-sighted but I was so near-sighted that the fact that signs contain actual words and not just blurry pictures was a shattering revelation. I remember marching out of the optometrist’s office and reading every sign I could find – just because I could.
Ever since then my consistently worsening vision has provided my family with a trove of embarrassing and hilarious stories. Like the time when I was 16 and jumped on the back of a boy in the swimming pool, thinking he was my brother that I’d been horsing around with. I quickly realized that despite wearing the same color swim trunks as my brother, he was not related to me in any way when he turned his head and said dryly, “Excuse me, can I help you?” I still had my legs locked around his waist when I spotted my brother several feet away laughing so hard I thought he was going to aspirate his own tongue.
Power yoga may be my new favorite workout, if only because this happened this morning: There we were, an hour into a leg-quaking, arm-shaking class when the teacher told us to we were going to take a quick break to try something new. Having been to plenty of yoga classes in my day I immediately realized that a) unless you’re laying flat down on your mat there’s no such thing as a “break” and b) “new” always means tricky. But despite my muscles silently threatening me with total boycott if I did anything fancy, I followed her instructions to crouch down onto my heels. As soon as she told us to move both hands to one side, I knew what was coming. My old nemesis Side Crow:
This isn’t Emily but it’s basically what she looks like.
I know yoga’s all peaceful and whatever but I’m just going to say it. I hate Side Crow. I’m probably doing it wrong but I always end up with all my weight on my one supporting wrist and it just doesn’t seem right to pit gravity against the teeny tiny part of my body responsible for typing, ping pong and pageant-waving. Gravity always wins.
Bad news: Jelly Bean has croup. (A virus characterized by a nasty cough that kind of sounds like a seal barking. Which my boys found hilarious. Which made Jelly Bean upset. Which made her cough harder.)
Good news: She got a dose of steroids at the pediatrician’s this morning and she’s like a new kid. Modern medicine really is a miracle. (Except that she’s ravenous. I’ve never seen her eat like this! It’s kind of funny – she just ate 4 pretzel buns, one after the other, only stopping to tell me, “these is the bestest food I’ve ever had!!”)
Tired news: But that meant that I spent most of last night awake – holding her upright, rocking her, taking her in a steamy bathroom and then out into the cold night air. (The hot/cold thing is supposed to help open their airways – I learned it from Anne of Green Gables. And the pediatrician also recommended it.) And then watching her fitfully sleep just in case she, you know, stopped breathing. Thankfully she’s fine now but I didn’t sleep at all and now I’m a walking zombie.
Being too cheap to pay bus fare for four kiddos, every day I have to camp out at the bottom of the grand staircase of their school and try to collect them as they scamper down in the crush of students. It’s like playing Plinko crossed with Whack-a-Mole. But this particular day it was all that plus Operation, complete with weird buzzing alarms because apparently a student had gotten a case of the vapors and swooned at the top of the staircase. Elementary school kids are hyper anyhow at the end of the day so this only ignited the powder keg as I tried to make sense of all the kids yelling.
“He can’t breathe!”
“He’s having an asthma attack!
“He’s having a heart attack!”
I knew it was legit when the sweet 3rd grade teacher snowplowed up the stairs literally chucking kids out of her way. Soon there was a crowd and once I was reassured that the school nurse was there and an ambulance had been called – the general consensus was the poor kid was having a really bad asthma attack – I decided the best way I could help would just be to herd kids out the doors and give the boy some room. (Seriously I swear the universe is telling me I need to become an EMT.) As I pushed kids towards their buses one little boy ran up to his mom and, caught up in the zeitgeist of emergency, yelled “MOM! A BOY JUST DIED!!!”
When I thought this was makeup I thought it was crazy cool but when I found out it was a tattoo all I could think about is how painful and dangerous getting your eyeLIDS tattooed would me. I mean, one wrong slip with the needle and you’re blinded! Or you just got free Lasik!
This morning I spent several minutes staring intently at my own face. I wasn’t putting on makeup or popping zits* or even watching the color of my eyes lighten inexplicably. Rather I was watching my right eye spasm annoyingly every few seconds. Have you ever tried to put on mascara while your eye jumps around like Kriss Kross (may he rest in denim-clad peace)? Yeah, no.
I have an eye twitch. It sucks harder than 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife. (Apparently I’m reliving my 90’s youth in song today. Feel free to finish this line in the comments!) And you probably know exactly what I’m going through because it seems like everyone gets the twitchy-twitchy at some point in their lives. Heck, even the wizard of all wizards Gandalf gets an eye spasm every time the ring “talks” in the movies.
Repeat after me: I will not take medical advice from celebrities whose claim to fame is a Playboy spread. I’m not saying Jenny McCarthy isn’t funny, talented and gorgeous but the only medical tips I’m taking from her here on out are those regarding my bikini line. (Side note: as a child, I always thought “bikini line” meant hair on your belly, along the waistband of the bikini. It horrified me that puberty was apparently going to give me a furry tummy. When it didn’t I felt all superior to those poor women who had to wax their bellybutton every week just to wear short shorts. It took years and a very blunt woman with a graphic postcard in Spain before I learned the truth.)