Recovering

Last night I spent an hour at Baptist Urgent Care, a sterile plastic facility that has doctors who look like they didn't get into any of the good parties way back when. Which is sort of what you hope for in a physician that's treating you, a person who is so socially inept that they spend every single spare second of their life just figuring out a way to make people feel better.

Not surprisingly, I'd let my Imitrix prescription run out which gave the universe a perfect opportunity to unleash a migraine of mammoth proportions inside of my noggin. Because, of course, I like to spend quality time feeling like my forehead is being bashed in by a sledgehammer while my eyeballs are simultaneously lit on fire. By the time we'd finished dinner, the pain was unbearable and I realized I had zero refills on my prescription.

NICE.

So we trekked around the corner to the Urgent Care and sat among half a dozen sick people and one little girl who wouldn't stop running back and forth with a magazine draped over her head, chirping a princess theme song loudly enough for those of you in Canada to make out the words. I looked at the mother, who seemed only moments away from duck taping that glossy over her little one's mouth and thought to myself, If she goes ahead and makes the move, I'm not entirely sure that I'll stop her. But then something came over me and I winked and said, "She's a really sweet looking kid. And I don't know that duck tape would even work."

She took her death grip off of Cinderella's arm, and slumped back into her chair looking defeated.

And she smiled.


p.s. A big, huge thanks to the doctor who gave me a shot of Imitrix and that other stuff in the back of my arm and on my upper left cheek. And I'm not talking about the one on my face. Obviously, I am so sore this morning that I have no use of either extremities, but that's O-KEE-DO-KEE by me! Who needs both buttocks to sit down?