All tomorrow's party dresses

It's been a busy weekend, and, alas, it will soon be over. I didn't have time to write yesterday morning because I had plans all day, so here I am, on Sunday afternoon. I think Saturday morning is not the best time to write my blog in any case. Usually I don't feel like sitting at the computer because I've spent all week in front of one, besides which, usually I've already written myself out in my journal. So I may write on Sunday or Monday night from now on.

I went to the ophthalmologist on Tuesday, and, as predicted, he said the blurred vision is a side effect of the Interferon. He added that it's caused by dry eyes, and he gave me some artificial tears, which I've had a hard time remembering to use. I talked to him about my Horner's Syndrome while I was there, expressing the opnion that at the rate it's drooping, my right eye will be completely closed by the time I'm fifty. He said, "You know you can have that corrected, don't you?" I said, "Yes, but I can't afford plastic surgery," and he stunned me by saying that the procedure would probably be covered by my insurance because it's corrective and not simply cosmetic. Oh my God. Please let me have this! Have I mentioned the Horner's Syndrome in here? I can't remember if I have or not, so, at the risk of repeating myself, I'll describe it. Horner's Syndrome is a condition which affects the eye and is caused by a pinched or damaged nerve in the chest or neck. Mine was caused by the Graves' Disease: when my thyroid went into overdrive and swelled, instead of growing plump it grew tall, thereby pinching that nerve and causing my right eye to droop, swell and generally make a nuisance of itself. The symptoms are better now that my thyroid levels are back to normal, but the damage has already been done. The eyelid swelled and shrank so many times that it's stretched out. I have a little nest of wrinkles in the corner which makes it difficult to apply eyeliner. Also, the lid is puffy and droopy, making me look cock-eyed. Last but not least, the lid is distorted on the lash line, so that I have two levels of eyelashes on that eye. It looks odd. The ophthalmologist gave me a referral to an ocular specialist, with whom I have an appointment next month. I'm sure the procedure will cost me a fair amount even if my insurance covers it, but I'm willing to make payments in order to have my eye fixed, and it's a fairly simple procedure which can be done in the office, so it can't be too expensive.

On Thursday afternoon my ankle swelled up like a football and was so painful that I could barely push in the clutch to drive home, so I went back to the Urgent Care and talked to another doctor, who spent more time with me and explained my injury more clearly. He expressed the opinion that I was slowing the healing process by moving my ankle too much, and he gave me an "air cast," which I've been wearing every day since, and it's done wonders. The pain is nearly gone and the swelling is way down. I've finally begun to believe that it will be healed someday and I will be back on my trampoline at some point. I have exercises to do when I'm not wearing the cast, to stretch the muscles and keep the ankle from stiffening in one position, but apart from that I'm doing my best not to move it at all or cause it any sort of trauma. The doctor I talked to on Thursday said he's seen ligament injuries take as long to heal as a break, so I've stopped cursing and have settled down to wait.

Of course, my vanity and my desire to play dress-up are at odds with my desire for healing. My friend Rebecca had a party yesterday, and I wanted to wear a mini skirt with black tights and boots, but I can't wear heels unless I want to add an extra week or two to my healing time, so I went to Nordstrom and bought a pair of combat-inspired boots by Steve Madden. I'd seen them there a few weeks ago and salivated over them, but decided reluctantly that I could buy either them or the cut-out booties, and I went for the cut-out booties. But then I injured myself and have been unable to wear the damned cut-out booties! I thought it over on Friday night and decided that clothing and shoes are more important than CDs, so I'm going to sell my entire CD collection to pay for my shopping habit. I have over 300 CDs, so even if I only get $1 apiece for them, I'm doing pretty well. I'll just rip them all to my hard drive and get rid of the lot. With that in mind, it was a joy to walk into Nordstrom and buy the boots I'd been coveting. I wore them to the party but was unable to stay longer than an hour because my ankle was killing me. When I got home I kept wearing the cute little outfit I had on, but took off the left boot and replaced it with my air cast. Ahh, relief! It's not a thing of beauty, but it is a joy forever.

While I was out running around yesterday I'd also intended to get a cheap black denim mini skirt and a pair of black leggings from Forever 21, which is the ultimate teeny-bopper store. I hate going in there because the music is awful, it's full of children, and I wouldn't touch most of their stuff with a barge pole, but their prices are amazingly low. I seriously doubt that their sweatshop workers are making ends meet. After scouring all three levels, however, I was unable to find the mini skirt I'd seen online, and they didn't seem to have any leggings left, either. I wandered through Paseo Nuevo mall, looking in various shops to see if they had a black denim mini skirt, but was unable to find one, so I determined to buy it and the leggings online and pay the shipping. I was grumpy, though, when I got home and I didn't want to deal with Forever 21 and its bad photos. I couldn't tell what the skirt really looked like from the photo, which is why I'd wanted to try it on in the store, so instead of buying it I went to the Topshop web site and spent $50 on their black denim mini skirt. My CDs had better sell.

Later I learned that I could have got the boots for half price because my friend Melissa's boyfriend works at the Steve Madden shop in the Mall of America, and she would have been willing to get them for me and ship them to me. But it's too late now. The two of us sat on the phone for a couple of hours yesterday afternoon, shopping online together. After drooling over everything we can't afford at Shopbop, we looked at all the Steve Madden shoes, and I decided that I have to have a pair called the Wrappp bootie. They're adorable. So, when my CDs sell, I'll send her $85 and she can get them for me. So it all works out.

I have to take a moment to express my gratitude that what's occupying my mind these days is the frivolous absurdity of fashion and not the host of side effects I could be experiencing. When I think of what my friend Shawna went through on Interferon, I'm inexpressibly grateful. Each week that passes with minimal side effects is a triumph.

Just one last thing before I sign off for the week. I've noticed that my emotions have intensified quite a lot since I quit smoking, which is saying a lot because they were pretty intense before, thank you very much. Also they fluctuate wildly: one minute I'm giddy with inexplicable elation and the next I'm prone on the floor in the throes of suicidal despair. I don't feel like I'm on a roller coaster so much as in a pinball machine, ricocheting all over the table in the most disconcerting way. I've noticed it all along and have even commented on it here, but I didn't connect it with having quit smoking until the other day. Because it hasn't been difficult for me not to smoke I suppose I just sort of assumed I wouldn't have any of the other symptoms associated with quitting, but now that I know I am, I have to say I'm glad of it. I'm always happy when what I do is "typical," when I have the usual symptoms of this or that, because I'm sure it means I'm doing it right. I know that I value things I have to work for much more than things that come easily to me, and I was afraid that if it was too easy to quit smoking, I wouldn't have enough protection against it if I felt the urge to smoke. So, according to my friends who have quit, I'm in for about two years of steadily decreasing emotional symptoms, which is okay by me. I went through a couple of years of changes when I got clean; I can do this, too.