You’d think that after surviving a cancer diagnosis, a mastectomy, chemo and radiation, I’d have learned to wear my big-girl pants. But yesterday, I needed an adult diaper.
Translation for those who’ve lost their way in this messy metaphor: No, I didn't wet my pants. I had a bad day. And I cried a lot. And there’s nothing more embarrassing than being a big baby who’s 61 years old and 5 ft. 10 in.
It was a trifecta of misfortune that sent me into the slough of despond: hair, cat and computer. After a 12:45 emergency consultation with a colorist, a 1:30 emergency visit with my vet and a 4:30 meeting with an Apple genius, all is resolved except my hair, which remains a weird, tarry, brackish, near-black that I’ll have to live with till it grows out.
I know it all seems trivial, but it doesn’t FEEL trivial.