Today, I saw it. Them, actually. The bags so large I’ll have to check them in when we fly to Florida. I’ve had them before. I saw them after weekends of karaoke and dancing. But all I had to do was apply a little cool water and some makeup and things were all good. But now, at 44, hemorrhoid cream and aloe gel still aren’t enough to shrink these Prada worthy bags down to carry-on size.
These particular bags have been sitting under my eyes for a week now. And they don’t seem like they’ll be leaving any time soon.
Why have these puffy jackasses set up shop on my face?
Lack of sleep. I haven’t had a decent night of sleep in a week. Between stress and anxiety and a dog and husband going for gold in the snoring Olympics.
But even though I’m tired – exhaus – exhausted, bone weary, can I check into the hospital for a week for some rest – I’m still expected to do damn near everything.
Write. Bills. Dental forms for three kids. Walk the dog. Walk myself. Plan Disney. Pack T Rex’s lunch. Check T Rex’s homework. Pack his bag. Make sure he’s awake and dressed. Make sure HayHay is awake and dressed. Don’t forget the brain pills.
All of that before 730 am.
And then I get to go to work.
The mood swings are getting so wild they may wrap around the pole at the top. The episodes of crying may be responsible for my new resident bags.
But I’m a mom, a wife, a customer representative, a daughter. I got shit to do. People rely on me. I don’t have time to cry. Or be tired.
But I guess it’s easier to slap a mask on my face rather than ask for help. Because asking means I’m weak. And I can’t be weak. Too many people rely on me. And I can’t let them down.
So, I’ll take the aloe gel and dab it on. I’ll lay cold cucumber slices on my eyes. And I’ll put the Preparation H on a q tip to help put the eviction notice on my face and get rid of these bags.
Because that’s easier than asking for help.