All for Kenny

         This weekend, I discovered I am not 21 anymore, nor do I want to be. I was supposed to visit my old gym and make the old switcheroo to my new “club” official. But, since that would actually require me going to the gym with the prospect of physical activity, that did not happen this last weekend.

            I actually have been doing well with the whole gym thing, and moderately well on eating, but it was “start week.” At my job, “start week” means long hours, headaches, drinking at home alone, and constantly shoving junk food in your face since it is always around the office. Start week could not have happened on a worse week, since I was scheduled for my annual health assessment at the end of last week. I passed with flying colors last year (sans the waist measurement, and we are forecasting a repeat this year) but I was curious to see what a year at my stressful job had done to my insides. I already know what it’s done to my outsides, which would be about twenty pounds.

            I was dreading this health assessment way more than last year. Last year’s assessment made me a little nervous, but I had the confidence of being new to my life in Omaha, aka, fresh off personal training in Kansas City. My husband has always been more health-conscious than me, but a few numbers were a little off last year (and really, I chalk some of it up to genetics) so he reported to a health coach. He made the necessary steps this year and makes some great life choices well before assessment time. He became an avid racquetball player and watched his eating and drinking. I am very proud of him and I knew he would do great. Myself, not so sure.

My health assessment was held in one of many meeting rooms in a large hotel. This hotel is so large, it actually has an indoor water park attached to it. I set my appointment for rather early in the morning for two reasons. One, I didn't want to miss any work for this crap. Secondly, you have to fast for 12 hours and I wanted to be sleeping most of those hours. It goes without saying that I don't like going hungry.

            I missed my turn because I was distracted by the large Perkins (I love me some Chicken Tender Melt) sign in front of the hotel so I ended up parking by the back doors. My company has events at this hotel pretty often, so I felt pretty smart as I strolled up to the multiple back doors. All the doors were locked. I stalked up and down the row of doors, determined to get in, and I finally found a door that was slightly cracked open. Then, I spent a large amount of time storming around the building looking for ANY signage that would lead me to personal measurement hell. I finally arrived at the door, and I could feel my blood pressure was high, which was exactly what I did not want. I snatch a chart and sit down. I focus on breathing deeply to calm myself down but I try to do this quietly so the other victims would not thinking I was out of breath from a little walking.

           I focus on my chart. Charts and questionnaires are really my favorite part of any doctor’s visit, because they always remind me that things could be so much worse. I’m lucky to check “no” to migranes, cancer, thyroid problems, smoking, drug use, mental illness, heart issues, respiratory issues, joint issues, paralysis, skin diseases, vision and hearing problems, chronic pain, digestive disorders, memory loss, etc.  

But, I’m always snapped immediately from my favorite part to my least favorite. A smiling lady calls me my name and throws me on a scale. She must be smiling because it’s early and she hasn't heard 500 people grumble about their weight yet. Well, I spared her the experience and just stared at the wall. Some measurements and some blood were taken and I was escorted to a non-smiling woman who would go over my results.

I was actually two pounds down from last week so there’s a personal victory. Apparently, my body is some kind of walking miracle because after what has probably been the hardest year of my life. All I have is the gained weight and slightly higher blood pressure. I was kind of upset about the blood pressure, especially when the assessor suggested eating a banana every day. Why does this upset me? Not in the reason you would think, I knew she was not going to suggest that I drink a Budweiser every day. That’s medicine 1970’s style, since my mom was given that advice back in the day to gain weight. What a problem to have huh?

            No, I was upset because I love bananas and I have eaten one every single morning for the past 2-3 months. I voiced this concern to my assessor, who then suggested some other potassium-rich foods, such as sweet potatoes. Baked sweet potato fries are a delicious and healthy staple at our house. To this, she told me weight loss would be my solution, but don’t get upset, it’s really not that high. She also didn't laugh when I shrugged and said, "Ah yes, lose weight, I would love to. Same shit, different day, huh?"

            Ok then.

            But, the miracle came with my blood work. I guess that was hereditary from my mother, but I would have much rather inherited the underweight problem she had at my age. My assessor told me that she can tell by my tests that I eat really healthy, and did not share my obnoxious giggle. Everything looked optimal, see you next year. Awesome.

            What do I do to celebrate passing a health assessment? Drinks, of course. I went to a work function and downed some pitchers and took the shots handed to me. What the hell? It’s start week, people.

            That party ended and I went to another friend’s party because I had to help her break in her new bar. Bottle after bottle of red wine came out of that bar and I was so busy talking, I actually went easy on the snacks, except for the cheesecake of course. Maybe my assessor was right after all. I'm the epitome of sloppy-ass health.

            I was chatting with my friend about my high school days of cheerleading and dance and she asked if I could do the splits. No, my friend, it’s been years.

            “I wanna see Pickle do the splits,” she said.

            Um…no…pretty sure I can’t.

            But she was persistent and I am a show off so I threw my arms up and let my legs slide out from under me. I felt my crotch hit the floor and I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. After all these years and all this abuse to my body, I keep surprising myself. So I got up, took some items out of my jeans pocket and went for it again. This time, my husband thought I had tore my pants because of the popping sound. That is not a bad guess, since I'm really quite shocked that didn't happen. I've torn perfectly good pants doing much less. No, what he really heard was me injuring my leg.

            Everyone is semi-impressed, but my husband just looks concerned. I limp back to the table where my wine glass sits. Even through all the wine, I kept murmuring…oh, seriously, I think I really fucked up my leg. I’m not kidding, I really messed up my leg. Oh man, this is going to suck in the morning.

            I really should have seen this coming. Earlier that day, I was telling a co-worker how I can’t so my Mary Catherine Gallager impression anymore with feeling like I’m going to blow my knee out. On Saturday, I’m not sure what was worse, my massive hangover from throwing up red wine all night, or the fact that my leg was basically a useless stump of searing pain. I woke up to the sound of my husband packing. No, he wasn’t leaving me, but I would have understood because Elizabeth Taylor probably smelled better than I did at that point. What? Too soon?

No, he was going to a bachelor party, and since he was so mobile at this hour of the morning, I pleaded he go upstairs and get me a glass of water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He obliged and brought me one. My dog, smelling peanut butter, followed my husband to the bed and lunged toward my sandwich. I took the sandwich, stared my dog square in the eye, and threatened, “If you try to get his sandwich Killebrew, I swear to God I will snap your neck.” I always say I think my dog really understands most of what I say, and this was proven, because he immediately laid down in a submissive pose next to me.

I maneuvered my sluggish body into a sitting position and watched Josh pack. I am nothing short of shoving this sandwich in my mouth. God, that sandwich was delicious, and who cares if I’m getting crumbs all over the bed?

“I just don’t know why you would go crusing for whores in Des Moines when you’ve got me waiting for you at home, sweetie,” I say with my mouth full. ( like to call bachelor parties crusing for whores even though I am confident my husband has no game with women, and is just an all-around good guy. He brought me a sandwich, for goodness' sake.
Josh looks at me, clearly seeing my dried puke-stained nightshirt and last night’s mascara streaks.

“Yeah, I know,” he says with a smile. "What the hell am I thinking?" He leans in to kiss me, but thinks better of it and kisses my nose. What a guy.

An old college friend picks him up and I’m alone. I doze off, and am awakened by a phone call by a friend letting me know we scored seventh row Kenny Chesney tickets that night. Score. I’m pumped, because I had nosebleed seats before this phone call. Now, I am close to the stage AND I don’t have to climb the stairs.

It’s been hours since the sandwich and I think it’s time to attempt eating again. Papa Johns breadsticks, which are basically pure bread, sound like the ticket. But, my bed is downstairs, and my computer is upstairs. I toy with my Blackberry. Hmm…I can order off my Blackberry, but I will still have to go to the door to get the pizza. That requires moving upstairs and probably putting on pants, and neither one sounds fun. I weigh my options. Well, Kenny will probably appreciate pants too, so either way pants have to happen. Let’s do this.

I stumble into my baggiest pants and slowly hobble up the stairs. Then down the stairs to let my dog out. Then up the stairs to order pizza. Then down the stairs to get my phone. I settle into my recliner with a bag of ice under my leg when my friend calls me.
"Let's just sell these bitches on Craigslist," she says.
"I don't have a Craigslist account," I admit, making no attempt to help her.
"Goddammit, you are getting your Master's degree, you can set up a Craigslist account," my friend chastises. She's right, but I just moan in lazy, hungover protest. Before I know it, she sold our old tickets and is coming by to pick them up. Up and down the stairs again and pizza is finally here, with two fatty Cokes. I love you, Papa Johns.

This is when I knew I was not faring well. I could only bring myself to eat one breadstick and half a piece of pizza. The smell was nauseating and the feeling of food in my mouth was worse. My friend walks in.

“Pizza?” I offer. She giggles. We watch a little Spongebob Squarepants together, my hangover show of choice. I think it just brings me back to childhood and doesn't require me to think. Then she points out that everyone is constantly yelling on the show, and it kind of loses it's appeal. She reminds me we don’t have a lot of time before we are getting picked up for the concert. She leaves and I struggle out of my chair. All for Kenny.

Showering, dressing, and pulling on high-heeled boots (I know, I’m an idiot) was precarious but I got through it. I pull on a shirt I haven’t worn since college and it looks great. That would be the only benefit to last night’s purging, since no matter how much I shower and bathe in Very Sexy for Her perfume, I still feel like I smell like vomit. I gimp around downtown and finally we find ourselves a bar. I barely notice I’m wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. Time to get back on the wagon.

This bar is hot, loud, and we are forced to stand. This is hangover hell on earth, especially since I am forced to stand on one leg. I order a tequila sunrise. It smells awful, but this is for Kenny, dammit, and I choke it down. I fail to taste the sunrise, but I feel a little better. After a burger and fries I’m back in the game. We down some drinks and I'm walking close to normal by concert time. My friend and I spent all the money we made off our old tickets on tall drafts of Bud Light and me and my leg felt good enough to break it down to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”

Of course, the concert was amazing, and all the things I did for Kenny paid off. My friend’s boyfriend picks us up armed with Busch Light tall boys, because he likes to keep it classy. I too, like to keep it classy and crack one immediately. We forgo the downtown bars, because I am out of cash and running out of steam. The words “Taco Bell” get thrown out. I’ve never eaten there, except for once in an airport, but why not? The damage is done right?

I say I don’t even know what to order, but we pull into the drive-thru and the boyfriend silences me. “I’ll handle this,” he says, and orders $24 worth of food. Since Taco Bell is basically some of the cheapest stuff I've eaten, that was a lot of food. We gorge on it at my house. I’m beginning to think they put something in their food because even though I didn’t think it was great, I woke up wanting more of it.

I wake up Sunday with a slight headache and a hamstring that is still a little tight. I realize why I don’t do this crap anymore, because I can’t and I really don’t want to. I got back in the game a different way this week, by withdrawing from my old gym and making a couple of appearances at my new one. But, it was all for Kenny, and it was great.

Until next year, health assessor.