I need to slow down. This is not new information, but for some reason, I keep lying to myself. Do any of these little lies sound familiar to you?
“I just need to manage my time better, and I can fit it all in.” Wrong. There are still only 24 hours in a day. I counted them. And there’s actually a finite number of things one can accomplish in a 24-hour period.
“There’s not a single thing on this list I can give up.” It definitely feels like this one should be true, but it’s not. It’s possible for me to say no. Of course, this is just a theory at this point because I’ve never actually done it, but I believe it’s possible. I have to start saying no to some things (like my client).
“Things will slow down soon.” That’s the biggest damn lie of all! The busy period never ends because when one thing is finally done, my Type-A ass already has three things lined up to take its place.
My fifteen-hours per week contract gig is turning into more like twenty-five hours a week, and it’s my own damn fault for agreeing to do more than the project was originally scoped for. Plus, being a SAHM is a 24/7 job. The other problem is my preggo brain is back. Put all this together, and I’m just a hot mess.
Fridays are supposed to be work-at-home days, except last Friday I had to go into the office because I had left my cell phone there. (Dur.) The sweet woman who was holding my phone wasn’t at her desk when I arrived, and I couldn’t call her to ask where it was. While I was pacing outside her cubicle, the vice-president walked by.
Now, what I’m about to describe to you is what I call the “Warm Body Effect.” This phenomenon occurs when an executive has an idea and needs someone to listen while he thinks out loud. He spots the nearest warm body outside his office and WHAMO! That warm body is then held captive until the executive finally runs out of words.
That’s what happened to me on Friday, which is why my quick trip to the office turned into a three-hour hostage situation. Which is why I was late making dinner for my friend who just had a baby. Which is why the giant roasting pan full of baked chicken went directly from the oven into my car without cooling off first.
In my mad rush to get the pan into the car, I spilled hot, buttery chicken juice all over my arm, resulting in a second-degree burn that blistered immediately on contact. Once again, I was going too fast and not being careful and doing the exact same thing I scold Quinn for doing.
And did I go to the emergency room? Of course not. I made Hubs drive to my friend’s house to drop off dinner while I iced my arm on the way there. My rational was that I didn’t want to sit in a germ-infested ER waiting room while pregnant only to have them send me home with some ointment and hand-foot-and-mouth disease.
Luckily, Hubs used to be an EMT, so his first aid kit is extensive. He wrapped my arm in gauze, then tape, then an Ace bandage. Well, I must have re-wrapped the bandage a little too tight before I went to bed because when I woke up Saturday morning, my right hand had swollen up to three times its normal size. Imagine wearing a fat suit on just one arm. That’s what I looked like.
Saturday was also the day I went with a friend for my first manicure in years. At the salon, I gently placed my normal-sized left hand on the little towel… then BOOM! I flopped my puffy meat-paw on the towel next to it. The manicurist’s eyes got big and she started talking really fast in Vietnamese to the ladies doing our pedicures. My friend and I shared a smirk. What are you gonna do?
I should also mention I had a terrible reaction to the adhesive on the tape, so the skin all around the wound is red, bumpy and itchy.
This is all very reminiscent of My Incomplete Blink. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, I’m covered in bubble wrap and surrounded by yellow caution tape. Or at least I should be. And there’s no one to blame but myself.
Anyway, my hand is now back to its normal size and the wounds are slowly healing. Lesson learned: say no more often (even if I’m getting paid to stand there and listen), stick to a bedtime, and the next time someone has a baby, make them a nice salad instead of ten pounds of baked of chicken.