My first college roommate was a beauty queen, like a legitimate beauty queen. (As in, runner-up to Miss California U.S.A... or something crazy like that.) Anyways, she was very sweet and intelligent, and taught me quite a few things- for example; never do a drinking game that frat guys call "the crawl," always keep a good supply of m&m's on hand (someone will always need them), never take a class that says "alternate choice advised," and everyone- EVERYONE needs a happy hat now and then.
On an all-female dorm floor, the drama is constant. Duh. Several times a week, a sobbing hallmate would be lead into our room by my roommate to be presented with the happy hat. The happy hat was, of course, my roommate's tiara from her near-winning moment in the Miss California pageant. It never failed, when she'd place it on top of their rumpled heads, to bring a smile to the tear-streaked face. As they looked at themselves in the mirror, they'd always giggle and wipe away the tears. If they were lucky, my roommate would let them wear it around the dorm for a while. I even wore it myself a few times. And damn if it didn't help.
Eventually, she went to live with a sorority sister, I transferred schools, and we parted ways. But I still do make use of the happy hat theory. No, I do not own a tiara, nor do I have any desire to own one. But in my maturity, I seem to have found comfort at the other end- in my shoes. Putting on my most expensive, extravagant shoes helps to keep me centered, and helps with the freak-outs.
Having said all of that, I will have you know that right now I am sitting in my apartment in an old sweater, my yoga pants with the bleach stains, and my Betsey Johnson floral sandals with gold stiletto heels.
Things aren't the greatest. That mystery area of activity on the pet scan has moved itself into my right lung as well, leaving me very short of breath and apartment-bound for nearly 3 weeks now- the only exception being the few days I spent in the hospital, when it got really bad. But the good part in all of this mess is that the mystery seems to have been solved- I had a nasty procedure called a bronchioscopy, which determined that the stuff in my lungs is inflammation due to the radiation therapy that I had a few months ago. The bad part, though, is that there is absolutely no timetable for how long it will take to get better. I asked the doctor, "Weeks? Months?" and he couldn't even ballpark it for me. So even though I am really hoping to go back to work on Tuesday, and go back to performing soon, I really don't know when it will be actually possible.
Until then, I will continue to catch up on my knitting and bad television consumption. And rest assured, I will be wearing fabulous footwear. Hapy feet help.
And speaking of bad television, I hear that the Miss America pageant is on on Saturday night. I think I'll be cheering for Miss California- just because.
