Erin Go Braless
Man. I am atwitter with serious fuckery.
I’ve pretty much managed to completely allow my life to be derailed by my insanely hectic schedule. That’s no excuse. And it’s beginning to wear on me. I am currently trying to find new employment, which will hopefully come to fruition sometime this week. I had promised myself I would be out of Glide Rite by March. I hadn’t intended on it working out this way, but so much the so better. I am also trying to match up a busy rehearsal schedule with a writing schedule. I have to have the first draft of something turned in by April 15th. Now, the cheater that I am, I actually already have two things already written out. But I’m still trying to write new stuff.
So my diet has gone off the tracks, over the trestle and into the fucking ravine. I have been essentially eating not just too much, but horribly. I’m talking chili cheeseburgers, Cap’n Crunch milkshakes, pizzas, quesadillas, just absolutely horrible for you delicious gross shit. I’ve been skipping breakfast and lunch because of stomach pains, then housing a big old meal, then laying around feeling sick. Seriously, yesterday consisted of three meals of cake and butterfinger ice cream. It’s like I’m a fucking six year old.
Strangely enough, I’ve kept my weight at or around 206. I don’t know how or why. And my body isn’t particularly fatter. I’m still a husky lad, but I’ve been eating for shit.
I wanted to be sub deuce for St. Paddy’s day, but that was a pipe dream that never came to pass. Because I figured this would be a pass weekend. But then I forgot I’d be taking my blood pressure medication. It’s still coming in high, at like 142/90, and I need it down to at least 130/85 to feel better. But I’ve been taking my medication and then passing right the fuck out. Drowsy and unable to operate machinery? Try instant fucking coma.
Well, because it wasn’t coming down fast enough, the doctor wants me to potentially up the dosage. I don’t want to do this. I didn’t want to be on hypertension medication to begin with. But, I have to do something so my heart no asplode. But it’s still spiking high, and I’m afraid that I’m going to need to go up another notch on the ol’ medical belt buckle. If I dieted like a normal boy and I kept taking my meds, and I got exercise, I should be able to combat this. But I’ve been feeling like hell.
St. Paddy’s Day proved to be problematic. I called a pharmacy to find out whether or not I could drink. On my medication, it doesn’t say do not mix with alcohol. On the safety packaging, it doesn’t say not to mix with alcohol. I looked it up online. It says with Atenolol, the effects of the medication could be increased by the usage of alcohol. It also says not to skip a dosage. That’s what’s on most of the paperwork. Do NOT miss a pill. If you remember, and it’s more than 8 hours between your next dose, then take it. But if it’s less than that, don’t take it, and go to the next one. But it’s really important not to overdose. Because that could be potentially coma city. The pharmacist said, well, it doesn’t recommend it, but one or two drinks couldn’t hurt. And then, because he’s a smart guy, he says, but I figure you want to do more than one or two drinks? I said, yup. He says, wait 10 hours between drinking and not drinking to take the pills. But I don’t recommend it.
Well, I like my alcohol. But I like not going to the hospital more. My weapon of choice is the Irish Car Bomb. I bought the mixtures, and even some shot glass and Guinness pub glasses for the occasion. So that afternoon, I chugged the car bomb, and then gently sipped the remaining Guinness. I would wait two hours, and then drank one more. I drank two on the night. Then at our friends party, I wore my beer mug foam hat (best dollar spent at Target evah) and drank one more Guinness. Then I stopped. It kind of killed me to stop. I wasn’t even acquainted with the word buzzed. I wasn’t even tipsy. I wasn’t even delightfully ribald. I was essentially stone cold sober. Which is not the point of St. Paddy’s. So I failed myself and my heritage.
Later that night, after much deliberation, I decided to take my pill at midnight. I had stopped drinking at 8 or eight thirty. Being the meaty fellow I am, I figured, the alcohol has to have processed by now. So I took my pill.
The next morning, my blood pressure was 129/89 the lowest it has been yet. But it also means I can’t consume alcohol until I fix myself. Or at least, no more than one drink.
I am putting myself on a boot camp regimen. I seriously need some order and discipline in my life. I am measuring and preparing and adhering to my tightened schedule. Food plans, exercise plans, writing plans. I need to do this. My chest pains are starting to rear their ugly heads again. And I don’t want that on my conscience. I want to be healthy so I can enjoy my life. I don’t want to have to worry if an occasional cup of coffee will kill me. I want to be able to enjoy a big dinner because I eat healthy most of the time. I want to be able to run around and play with the kids I will be able to have because I didn’t fucking die.
I’m sad because I feel like I have to put away the foam hats and the Hawaiian shirts and the beer bongs and start acting all grown up and mature. I feel like I have to relearn how to have fun. It sucks. I feel like I’m sacrificing the part of myself that’s fun and entertaining to stay alive. And that’s depressing.
