Her words sting because of how accurate they are, but I’m the queen of self denial and no one shall ruin my reign.
“Talking to his family isn’t going to change anything. Plus, my life is hardly a mess. You’re being overdramatic as usual.”
“Hold on, I’m going to call you on FaceTime. I want to see you.”
“No!” I refuse sharply. “You can’t just video call people whenever you want, Pat. It’s intrusive.”
I already know that I probably look ten times worse than I feel and then I’d have to listen to my older sister berate me for another ten minutes about how I’m not taking care of myself.
“Fine,” she huffs, unhappy with hearing a no. “Then make sure you eat breakfast and take one of those 800mg ibuprofen I sent you last month. That’ll fix you right up.”
“How old are those things? Didn’t the doctor prescribe them for you after your c-section with Nate?”
“Yeah, so?”
“That was six years ago, Pat!”
“Medicine doesn’t expire like people think it does. It’s just the pharmaceutical companies trying to squeeze more money out of us by throwing random expiration dates on the bottles.”
Did I mention that my sister has very strong opinions about almost every subject under the sun?
“Yeah, um, I think I’ll just have a beer,” I tell her. “That’s got to be safer than a six-year-old pain pill.”
“Do I need to find you an alcoholics anonymous meeting too?”
“It’s called hair of the dog.” I suck my teeth loud enough so that she can clearly hear me. “Again, you own a bar. Haven’t you ever done that before?”
“Drinking to get rid of a migraine you got from drinking the night before seems counterproductive, Trina, so no, I never did that. That’s what pain medicine is for.”
“Gosh, you sound just like mom.”
“You meant that as a jab but I’ll take it as a compliment. Just go back to bed,” she says, sounding completely disappointed with the conversation in only the way an older sister would.
“I can’t go back to bed. I have work.”
“Wait, you’re going to see clients in the condition you’re in?”
Little does she know that I see clients in this condition more times lately than not. Pat doesn’t need to know everything.
“It’s just a headache.”
“It’s not just a headache. It’s a hangover. I bet you’re under the covers in a bra and panties, with smudged mascara under your eyes, vomit in the trashcan beside you, and that big ass dog of yours still needing a walk.”
I lift the sheets and stare down at myself. I hate it when Pat is right. I have no recollection of taking off my clothes and getting into bed last night and my Rottweiler, Butters, is sitting patiently by the side of my bed, waiting for me to take her out to pee.
“I threw up in the bathroom, not in a trashcan,” I respond sarcastically. “And I’ll be fine. I can be ready in fifteen minutes.”
I better be or I’m going to be late for my first appointment of the day and that’s never a good thing. It throws the rest of my appointments completely off.
“Good luck with that,” Pat retorts. “Call me later.”
“Yep, bye.”
I rotate my feet like I’m riding an invisible bicycle to kick the covers off. The cold air hits me like a ton of bricks and makes me almost want to cry. I’m a California girl through and through and even after two years, this East Coast weather is still taking some time getting used to.
I told Pat and her husband that I moved here because of the advanced psychotherapy study opportunities here in New York, but really I moved here for the worst reason ever–a man.
Aaron and I had a long distance relationship for several months when I decided that I wanted to move to be closer to him. The key word in that sentence isI, although it didn’t feel like it was just what I wanted at the time.
