On Why One Needs to Stay Calm
The other day, I got my flu shot. No big deal; I get one every year because I really hate paying homage to the porcelain goddess.
The next day, I went to lunch, ate stuff I have eaten many times before…and developed some sort of reaction. I figured (and
correctly, I might add) that if I went home and napped for an hour, I'd be fine. My S.O. was not so convinced, and so I found
myself down at the local Convenient Care clinic, waiting for an overworked doc to examine me.
I won't go into all the details except to say that my doc agreed with my initial assessment, and after giving me my diagnosis
(I was suffering from "An adverse reaction to an introduced natural, biological and/or psychological agent or combination
thereof"-which is to say it was likely a combination of stress, the flu shot and overly hot and garlicky chicken wings for lunch)
and some antihistamines, sent me home with the admonishment to "Take it easy the rest of the day and you'll be fine."
Which I did, and I was.
However, while waiting for the nice Doctor, it occurred to me: I was wearing some perfumed oil, mascara and lipstick, as well
as a bra and panties under my blue Henley and jeans. That might raise a few bushy eyebrows. What to do about it? Panic?
Try to remove everything? (I had time and my purse; with the exception of the panties I could have done so-quite easily) Seek
out the back door? Or…or do what I did, which was to calmly wait for the nice doctor to examine me. (He did raise those bushy
eyebrows when he checked my breathing from the front…those boobs, such as they are, are real, after all…) That wasn't easy,
but necessary, and it brought something else to mind.
What else could I do? If I am a woman, then I have to do things like a normal person, not calling too much attention to myself,
but not shying away from everything, either. If I am not a woman, then I should spend my life hiding. Bah! I have no time for that
kind of crap.
Now, for the diagnosis: I have had some stress of late. I have had a sister go through surgery, my S.O. had major surgery
about the same time, I had to run three seminars, plus represent the school I work for at a major conference, plus having to work
around a second funeral for another member of my extended family in an eight-week span. (I've given orders-nobody else can die
for the next few months. Nor can they have any kind of surgery. Enough, already.)
To get there, I had to fly, and that meant coming in contact with the TSA. Which isn't much of an issue; my S.O. and I fly together
a lot, so we get few snide comments or problems. She could not attend this funeral though, so I got to fly alone. Which in some
respects was kind of a treat.
Now, many of you know how I feel about most governmental bodies. (There are a few I'd let frisk me anytime, but I digress.)
Bureaucrats generally as a rule annoy me, and the fewer dealings I have to have with Uncle Sam's Thought Police, the happier
a woman I am. However, if one wants to board the nice airplane, one must pass the checkpoint.
Getting wanded at Nashville was no big thing. They were almost apologetic, ignored the ping that showed my bra clasps
(bless them!), and patted me-gently-around the stronger ping that was my belt buckle. (A travel tip to all you cowgirl types:
don't wear the dinner plate sized silver plated rodeo championship belt buckle when you fly!) They sent me on to my gate, and
when I touched down, found they had examined my luggage at some point. Goddess, I hate flying with my suitcase unlocked,
but such is the price one pays to fly today, what with a terrorist behind every Bush. J
Coming back through Beautiful Downtown Burbank, my suitcase and I got vetted together. The poor guy told me to stand in the
little box-then opened up my suitcase and rummaged through my bras, panties, a pair of knee-hi hose that I had worn, and a few
other femme items (including my trusty Lady Norelco). He decided not to play in the dirty clothing pouch. I mean, this looked like
a woman's suitcase, no doubt about it, right down to the scarves I had been given from my late aunt. After much rummaging
around, a few questions and a slightly closer examination of my personal person (with eye-makeup, lipstick, and freshly done
nails) they let me through. I walked on through to the security checkpoint, my head held high.
Panic? Nah. I actually felt sorta sorry for this poor Governmental employee person that had to look for some sort of illegal
chemical or illicit drug in my `lil `ol suitcase (okay, so it's a full size, hard-sided silvertone Samsonite, and thus, little it ain't) at
6 AM. All he found were my herbals and my prescription. All of which were legal. Had he dug a little deeper, he might have
found my nail lacquer, some body crème, my boob mud, and a few other femme items. All of which are legal as well.
**giggles** Well, okay. He did get a very good look at my nightie, too…!
The point to all this pondering is that, as a woman, I can't get all panicky every time I walk into a new situation. Life happens,
luvs, and I really want to live mine as much as possible. So I can't worry about a sudden visit to the doctor's office, or the TSA
going through my stuff at 6 AM.
Now, keep in mind I live pretty much as a woman. If you don't, you may want to rethink a few things here. Doctors do play with
stethoscopes, and suitcases do get inspected.
But, if you stay calm and not get all frantic or bent out of shape, you'll be okay. You will grow as a person, and that's a Good
Thing. Part of living life in the female lane is learning how to respond to things as any woman would. So with the suitcase
thing, I played it cool like any woman having her undies examined would. With the doc, I kept my blouse-and bra-on, and let
him do what I overpaid him to do. I learned a lot from these two experiences, and know what to do and what not to do next
time.
For example, next time, I'm packing my raciest negligee'.
