Joel and I were invited to a fourth of July BBQ this Saturday. Fun, right? Sure, unless you're me. And you don't really like doing stuff. Or talking to people.
Also, this BBQ is just us and two other couples from my work. I like them both very much, but I don't really like hanging out with work people on the weekends. Because that means I have to wear real clothes and act like a normal person. And I have social anxiety that I normally treat by drinking several alcoholic beverages except I can't drink. Thanks for nothing, baby.
I was sorely tempted to say "sorry, can't make it!" and revel in our long weekend with no plans, no obligations, nowhere to be. But then I realized, hmmm, perhaps this is why I don't have any friends in this city. And I remembered how I got a severe case of The Sads about halfway through Memorial Day weekend when I realized we had done absolutely nothing (this is ridiculous, because I love doing nothing. I never claimed to be rational, and also LAY OFF ME I'M PREGNANT).
I'd be embarassed to tell you how much time I spent thinking about whether we should go to this stupid BBQ or not. Finally, I clicked "respond" on the invitation email, said "We'd love to come! See you there!" and clicked "send" before I had time to think about it. There! We're going! It will be fun! I'll make Pioneer Woman's pesto cream pasta and everything will be great!
And then this morning I got slapped with these fun accessories.
Apparently this is what happens if you have astronomically high cholesterol and mention to your doctor that you've been having intermittent chest pain and heart palpitations. Sure, no problem, I'll wear a heart monitor for 48 hours, I said at yesterday's 29-week appointment. In my head I was envisioning something like the heart rate monitor that Joel uses when working out, a discreet little band that goes around your chest and is easily hidden by a shirt. Instead, I got electrodes from my ribs to my neck, a mess of wires, a sweet little battery pack that you wear around like a shoulder bag, and orders not to shower until Sunday at 11am. It's classy AND sexy and I'm currently praying that we get out of work early for the holiday so I can go home and hide in the house until Sunday morning.
OH WAIT EXCEPT I HAVE TO GO TO A FUCKING BARBEQUE AND MAKE SMALL TALK WHILE LOOKING LIKE WALL-E'S FATTER COUSIN.
This baby owes me so hard.