Monday, February 8, 2010

It's my birthday, and I'll pass out if I want to.

Last week, I turned 34. In and of itself, that isn't such a big deal: when I think about my life, I am one happy camper, if a bit frazzled at times. (But what working parent isn't a little frazzled? If you can find one, please send her/him my way. I would like to get their autograph and ask her/him to be my mentor.) But I have to admit: 34 sounds very established. Important. And Grown Up.

In any case, a bunch of my co-workers went out to lunch on Friday. The lunch wasn't for me; I was just a willing and happy guest. We all ate, laughed, and enjoyed each other's company. As we were waiting for the bill, I suddenly began to see spots, my hearing faded in and out, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I managed to squeak out, "I think I'm going to faint," before passing out cold in my seat. I'm a little foggy on the details, but my coworkers immediately called my husband, 911, and a waiter to get me some cranberry juice. By the time the EMTs arrived, I was on my second glass of juice and felt like a new woman.

At the doctor's that afternoon, I was happy to learn that my episode (though incredibly embarrassing) was nothing more serious than having gone too long between meals. Low blood pressure + fast metabolism + empty stomach = passing out.

So while I am technically a Grown Up, it took my doctor to say, "You need to eat six times a day" to really shake things up. Who has time to pass out? Snack City, here I come.