Things I never want to do again

There’s a long list of things I never want to do again and having hemorrhoid surgery is front and center. In case you’ve ever contemplated having a hemorrhoidectomy, don’t. You can’t even brag about it because when you try to bring it up in casual conversation, people’s pupils dilate, they tactlessly look at their watch and start stepping backwards. I think it’s the word hemorrhoid, and I can’t say it enough.

I don’t want to ever again put dishes away either, but somebody told me-it could have been God or my mother, that cleanliness was next to godliness, and evidently clean dishes are the result of a woman who likes to eat real regular.

We all know I never want to cook again. How did I get elected as the cooker queen in this family? I never voted; I didn’t even get told there was a vote. Who thinks that’s fair? Why can’t we just live on Oreos and eat peanut butter right out of the jar? That would simultaneously fix two dreadful matters at once; no cooking-no dishes. Yay me. Sometimes I have great ideas. My grandbabies would go for it, but not their mothers. They’d frown and shake their heads. Mothers. Ugh.  

I’ve had a couple of MRIs and I hope I never have another. I’m claustrophobic and when the technician begins sliding me in, my sleazebag brain meanly hisses, “You should’ve inquired-did you know there’s no oxygen in there?” While listening to music, I close my eyes, trying to conjure up happier times and do my utmost to simply not think. It’s not as hard as you’d imagine. My cheeky children would eagerly tell you, “Not thinking might be her greatest gift.” For those of you who’ve had an MRI, you know you can’t sit up, even though that’s what you really want to do. You’d simply bang your head in the space sized for a newborn Chihuahua. Plus, they practically make you sign in blood that you’ll hold still; otherwise the pictures will be a blur. The doctor would read the image and say, “It appears her innards were running, but we know her so that can’t be right.”

Hands down, the one shenanigan I don’t ever want to do again, happened a couple of years ago. We were pulling our RV from Pensacola, Florida to Lake Jackson, Texas to store it for the summer. Less than an hour into our trip, in bumper-to-bumper traffic, we entered Mobile, Alabama. Our Google girl routed us around a 45-minute delay and told us to go left. As Gar maneuvered into the left lane, nearing the light, she changed her mind and said to go straight. We couldn’t. She had us do a U-turn, which we, scarily, could. This type of tomfoolery is always hair-raising for me since the camper, hitch to tail is 38 feet. I talk big about being brave, but I’ll confess right here, I don’t appear brave when we perform stunts like that in the middle of downtown traffic…in a truck…pulling a rig. I think my face mashed against the window gives me away, but there’s also the gripping of the door handle. That’s a telltale sign of a sissy.

We got going in the right direction just in time to realize there was a tunnel, a 12-foot maximum tunnel. Is our RV taller than 12 feet? That was a good question and one that would have been nice to have discussed last Thursday. There were soft bars coming down at the entrance to gauge if we’d fit. Well, how would we know? I’ll tell you how we would know. Gar had me get out and stand in traffic, IN TRAFFIC, as he pulled forward, and I was to use my best judgment. What? Me, the woman who, a few years back, thought it perfectly acceptable for 2 people to drive 3 cars from one town to another? We barely missed, but we missed. I looked back at the long caravan of cars lined up behind us, patiently waiting and intently watching and wondered how many of those drivers were slightly disappointed. I think God gets a little bored sometimes and just because He can, says, “Oh haha, Trena will think this is scary, it’ll be so great.” I thought I might have heard Gar cuss at one point, but I wasn’t certain because I was spewing forth language so vile that every sailor in The Port of Mobile was blushing and furiously taking notes.

Trena Eiden                  [email protected]