The economy being what it is, I'm a sucker for a discount. So when our local Montessori school agreed to raise my twins at a bargain price, I took the deal. Starting in a week, my twins will be in full-time preschool (5 half-days).
This means, of course, that now I can really dedicate myself to a proper nervous breakdown. I've been postponing this breakdown since the day my uterus expelled its first human. That was almost 11 years ago.
For those of you who, like me, lack math skills, that was when Clinton was still President. Back then, I was enrolled in a graduate level poetry class where one of my classmates wrote a poem called, "O Lewinsky, My Lewinsky."
Those were the days, dudes.
I've been holding out since Clinton was Prez to have this breakdown. It had better be epic.
Goodness knows I need this breakdown. My body is a shriveled, sorry excuse, an empty husk of its former self. I've birthed five human beings and I'm all stretch marks and deflated breasts. I pee when I sneeze. After I drink coffee, my armpits smell like French Roast with a faint hint of halitosis. It's weird.
If I'm honest, I've been waiting to have this breakdown since I was a kid waiting for Jesus to return in 1988. I was 8 when I realized I only had three years left to live. In 1988, I was gonna be 11 which didn't leave me much time to prepare. Just to be safe, I wrote up my final will and testament while I was still 10.
My lesbian neighbors got my pet rabbit. I figured they wouldn't be making the Rapture, but I knew they'd take good care of Thumper.
When 1989 arrived, Jesus still hadn't returned and instead of getting Raptured, I was getting braces. I mean, it was nice that my parents didn't want me to look like a horse for the rest of my life. But it was also kind a downer because if we were gonna waste money on cosmetic improvement, all I'd ever wanted since age 5 was cleavage.
But, of course, boobs were forbidden in fundamentalism. Boobs were the enemy, see. They must be strapped down, covered up, draped and tucked away like embarrassing relatives. Boobs? What boobs? I don't see boobs! Boobs don't exist!
I mean, the only time boobs were allowed in our church was when a baby was nursing. In which case a mother would pull out a voluminous nursing cape the size of a dining room tablecloth. She would drape herself in this and then stick her baby under there. You didn't really know what was going on except that in between Brother John's sermon on "Why The KJV Is The Only Authorized Version" you could hear loud sucking noises. And the occasional burp.
Anyway, the point is: I lived past 1988. I'm now 33, although my tired uterus is telling me I'm 90. I've actually outlived Thumper (that rabid reproducer!) and what's worse? I still don't have cleavage. Bring on the bingo and a honkin' huge LA-Z-Boy recliner. I'm ready to retire. Or have a breakdown.
I don't care if I can't get to Haven in a rocking chair. Imma be rockin' this trip.
I know my husband realizes something is wrong because he's gone into hyper-fix-it-mode. Like his solid WASPish forebears, he firmly believes that everything in life can be remedied with hard work and duct tape. I'm Greek so I take the more tragic view.
I know he can't fix me but I admire his willingness to try. It's endearing. And as a token of my appreciation, I've offered to dye his rapidly graying hair to a younger shade of sexy brown. He'll have none of it. Ah, well. It's probably too soon. It took me 13 years just to get him to use SPF-moisturizer.
I also offered to get a part-time job to help offset the costs of full-time preschool for our twins. He shrugged this off, too. He doesn't want me to get a job, he wants me to get better.
Do you know what this means? I think this means he's giving me permission to have my breakdown.
What a lovely specimen of maleness he is!
So, my plan for the rest of the summer is: to finally have my breakdown.
And then get a boob job.
Because cleavage: under-appreciated in fundamentalism, super awesome in real-life.
Even at age 90.
