Honestly, I could eat so much chocolate right now; the mere thought of it is disgusting.
Right, let's start from the beginning. You all know that my ears are a little broken, right? I'm not deaf, but I'm... deafened. I'm hard-of-hearing. I'm... impaired. Audially challenged. (Is audially a word? Shut up. It is now.)
Anyway, I have hearing aids. They're tiny and invisible and I used to wear them all the time. Then, over time I stopped putting them in because they simply weren't powerful enough anymore. I never replaced them because they're a pricy investment, and I always got along pretty well without them. Sure, I can't hear cell phones or smoke alarms or low-speakers or the odd sweet nothing that gets whispered in my ear, but otherwise, I got along just fine.
Over the last year though, things started to change. Regardless of how high the volume was on the TV, I was missing out the clarity and therefore got nothing out of The West Wing without closed captioning. There were more and more mumbling low-speakers in my life. I stopped flirting at bars, because having a conversation with someone when there's music blasting became impossible.
Enough was enough. I couldn't fake hearing anymore, so I finally decided to ignore the cost and do what had to be done. Besides, I thought, they're tiny. Who cares? Except... they're not so tiny anymore.
I went to my audiologist appointment yesterday, and it appears that my hearing has degenerated to the point where those tiny aids will do nothing but give me a lot of squealing feedback, because they're not strong enough to support my loss. I now need to wear the traditional behind-the-ear hearing aids that my brother - my profoundly deaf brother - wears.
I was never shy about saying, "Darling? I'm deaf. Be a doll and speak up, will you please?" But now... but now, they'll know it before I can say it. They'll see my hearing aids before they see me.
Stella told me to get over it. She says that people will see my big, fat, Italian personality before they see my hearing aids. (She's a darling, isn't she?) And I suppose she's right and that eventually, I and everyone else will forget they're even there. Eventually, I'll become utterly blasť about them.
But until then... my big, fat Italian personality is about to get a mammoth workout.
* * *
The result of my audiogram, with its lines that go down like a preacher's daughter, was such that they almost - not quite - but very nearly, destroyed the joy of the new dress I bought.
There is a new dress. A shocking dress of such personality and character, such whimsy and fun, that she seems to want to pull herself off of her hanger and break into a soul-searing flamenco.
Oh, she is lovely, my dress of red ruffles and black chiffon. She flits and flirts and tells the story of Spanish senoritas and brave toreadors.
And, also? I got her on sale.
Thank God for small comforts.
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