Ouch

Today I spent the morning being pampered by trimming my 'do, rejuvenating my color, and taming my unruly eyebrows. And when I left, instead of feeling relaxed and beautiful, I felt like I had been kicked, repeatedly, in the stomach by someone wearing pointy shoes.

No, my stylist didn't mess up my hair or give me lop-sided eyebrows. It had nothing to do with her. It was just another shitty example of how the world marches forward when I'm still weeping inside over losing my beloved Ryan.

At the booth next to my stylist's is a gal who had her little boy - healthy as all babies should be - back in November. Fortunately, I haven't seen this gal much because when I was in the shop for an appointment over the last three months, she was either on maternity leave or had the day off. But today she was there and the baby talk just swirled around, extending well beyond the imaginary confines of her booth.

During my appointment, which went on for two hours, several women (co-workers and customers) came up to this gal to see pictures of "her little man." Since I was having my hair colored, there wasn't anywhere I could run off to to avoid all the "oohs" and "aahs." I was held hostage and my torture was listening to these women gush over this other stylist's baby.

After my stylist had applied my color, I spent 30 minutes waiting for the chemicals to work their magic. My stylist thoughtfully handed me a current rag-mag and I gladly embraced the opportunity to distract my mind from the baby gawking that was taking place just inches from me.

I began to flip through the magazine only to have more "baby on board" pictures flashed in my face. There was Tom and Katie; there was "Brangelina"; and there was Gwyneth and Chris. There were blooming bellies everywhere!

I think that was the first time I was this close to a panic attack in public. I was choking back the tears as I closed the magazine and placed it in my lap. I couldn't believe how quickly my upbeat mood had shifted into feelings of bitterness and terror.

I was so distraught that I almost ran out of the shop before having my eyebrows waxed. There's only so much one can take before reaching that breaking point, and I was quickly approaching condition critical.

After my eyebrows were neatly shaped, I briskly walked to my car, got in, and just cried and cried, letting out all the pain I had contained and bottled-up for nearly two hours.

No one will ever coo over my little boy like the way those women were fawning over the other stylist's baby. I'll only receive sad looks that convey "I'm sorry" or thoughtless comments such as "Well, at least he didn't suffer."

It hurts so fucking badly that my arms are empty ... I never imagined that this kind of hurt even existed till I lost Ryan.