Decisions, decisions

A few weeks ago, I had implant surgery.

No, not that kind of implants. Dental implants. It was done in the surgeon’s office, with some count-backwards-put-you-completely-out general anesthesia.

Before they conked me out, I had to sign several papers and initial a slew of directives, including one that advised not making important decisions within 24 hours of anesthesia. I remember thinking, ‘like I’m going to leave here and go buy a car.’

When my husband and I left the doctor’s office, I didn’t feel well enough to go car shopping, but I was up for getting Wyatt a shirt for his kindergarten graduation.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Matt asked.

I was sure. Wyatt needed a white button-down shirt, and I didn’t want to make another trip on a different day. I assured him that I was fine to go in alone. Alone.

And he let me, despite the fact (he later told me) that I incoherently repeated myself for most of that whole day.

I had trouble finding the boys’ section (though I knew the store well) but finally, there they were — white, button down shirts. In Wyatt’s size. Exactly what I was looking for.

I pulled one off the rack, looked at it, pondered over it, and decided — no beans about it — the blue checked shirt beside it looked much nicer.

So I bought it. The blue checked shirt. And I happily walked back to the car.

“Find what you needed?” Matt asked as he started backing out of the parking space.

“Yep!” I proudly pulled my find out of the bag, and he immediately hit the brakes. Hard.

“Are you trying to make him look like a tablecloth?!” he asked.

I gasped. “It DOES NOT look like a tablecloth! This is a VERY NICE looking shirt!”

“It is a very nice looking shirt,” he said, “If you WANT him to look like a TABLECLOTH!”

We finally agreed to disagree, because really, most of the time there’s no use arguing with me.

By 5 pm, I’m told I had stopped repeating myself, but I had complete holes in my memory up until then. It was bedtime before I remembered I had gone shopping.

So pleased that I had knocked something off my to-do list under those circumstances, I went to get the bag from the car.

I pulled out the shirt, and oh my goodness. It looked just like a tablecloth.

Seriously. One of the pictures below is the shirt, and the other is a tablecloth. Can you tell the difference?

 

 

Moral of the story: Forget about making important decisions. Don’t make ANY decisions after anesthesia.

In case you’re wondering, Wyatt wore this shirt for graduation instead.