I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humor.
Everyone laughs at my jokes with the exception of my husband, who, after seven years laughs at me for all the wrong reasons. Not in a mean way, he just doesn’t think I’m funny of an intentional sort. Recently a coworker left the company and sent me a kind, handwritten card thanking me for my friendship and I found myself saving it to show my husband because there was a mention of how funny he thought I was. I felt ridiculous doing it, like a child seeking validation for her good grades. All the same, I did it. That’s just how I roll.
Being able to laugh at yourself is a pretty important skill in life. Luckily I picked it up early on and it has gotten me through more than a few ridiculous situations that otherwise would have simply been embarrassing. Right now it’s about all that’s keeping me sane. Although I’m only turning thirty all these strange things keep happening to me that I thought waited until the big four-oh. Like spider veins, red moles and a ridiculously revved up sex drive that I assume is my body screaming, “Reproduce!”
No, body, no.
I’ve had laser surgery, I’ve gone to dermatologists and I’ve started reading – I can’t believe this – romance novels. While all of these things are embarrassing, some are definitely more painful than others. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that spider vein treatments are painless; they’re far from it. So far from it that when I was done I asked the woman if people often told her they hate her. Still, it beat the needle option which required wearing compression stockings for weeks afterwards. No, they are not all gone but I’ve decided that rather than plunk down another $250 for thirty minutes of pure hell I would spend my money on weekly spray tan sessions. I do not resemble Snooki and things are working out nicely.
There is some good news. I finally have the right hair style and my fashion sense is a lot better than it used to be. I seem to be regressing to a rabid teenager state but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Reading 12 books in seven days by Charlaine Harris and watching four seasons of True Blood in one month is acceptable, right?