You know you’re having a bad week when you don’t need a mask to look grotesque on Halloween.
It all started last week when I caught a flu virus so debilitating that it made me do something unfathomable, something I would never do in my right mind: go to the doctor. Clearly delirious from my high fever and the time my brain was cut off from oxygen as I drowned in a pool of my own sweat, I stumbled into my doctor’s office for help. Desperate for any kind of relief. It was there, lying down on the examination table, that I heard the four worst words a doctor could deliver to a woman.
“You’re wearing Mom Jeans!” the doctor laughed.
I jumped up, horrified, certain my delirium had caused me to grab some horrible high-waisted pants from the back of my closet. I had not, thankyouverymuch, and I dug into my remaining reserves of energy to muster up some proper indignation.
“Excuse ME, doctor, but these are red skinny jeans. They are hardly what I’d call ‘Mom’ –”
“They’re covered in spit-up,” the doctor noted, unimpressed.
Oh God. They were. And the worst part was, I knew they were covered in spit-up and didn’t even bother to try to wipe it off before I ventured out in public. Fact is, I’ve grown immune to spit-up and poop stains. Unlike, say, this flu virus, for which I couldn’t take any medicine because none of it was safe in breastfeeding. Or, say, an allergic reaction to flea bites all over my body.
Yes, that’s right: just as I started to feel better and get my temperature down to a point that the neighbors could no longer boil eggs on my forehead (RUDE), I noticed a mass of itchy red bumps and welts making their way up my legs, across my stomach, down my back and on my face this weekend. Allow me to reiterate: a cluster of welts ON MY FACE. Seriously, next year, Halloween stores are going to sell a mask called “The Candy.” And it will scare the shit out of people.
My body was on fire and I couldn’t bear the feeling of clothing against my skin: two things that normally are music to Mr. Candy’s ears, but not in this welt-filled instance, I’m afraid. I immediately drove to Rite-Aid and marched to the pharmacy, head down, lest I be mistaken for a zombie. Because the last thing I needed were masses of people coming after me with cranium-crushing samurais or whatnot. I simply did not have the energy for that right now.
“Hives! Fleas! Allergies!” I choked out, embarrassed, when I reached the pharmacist’s window.
“Benadryl,” she instructed, slowly lowering her samurai.
Benadryl has helped mask the symptoms — and we are getting the fleas professionally exterminated — but I will probably still have to return to the doctor for antibiotics. Only this time, I’m counting on the grotesqueness of “The Candy” to distract him from the grotesqueness of my “Mom Jeans.”