Today officially marks the day my lower left eyelid has been twitching for one week.
The Dance Dance Revolution ignited by the nerves of my left eye began immediately following the resolution of the herpes outbreak in my right nostril [your internal dialogue of lascivious innuendo is soo rudimentary], meanwhile, I have also acquired some sort of fungal or bacterial rash on my chin and left nasolabial fold; all this in addition to the extra pounds I've put on [in my face] following the advent of the new year, makes me wanna look in the mirror, wave my arms around deliriously and shout:
H E L L O . G O R G E O U S
But if you can imagine, there was something even more gorgeous than my beat up mug that I had the pleasure of bearing witness to this week, so gorgeous it was worthy of a snap:
Perfectly manicured pasticcini from the Sicilian bakery around the corner.
.... but if you don't share in my delight with cutely packaged things, there were also these, more grotesque goodies that arrived at the same time:
When my spirit is down and I'm feeling perpetually anhedonic, fried bread stuffed with chocolate or ricotta is my last chance for emotional revival, albeit temporary - which is why our highly intelligent friend Udit came 'round bearing FIVE fried bread balls stuffed with chocolate and ricotta. This meant FIVE TIMES the cascade of serotonin to my starving brain cells.
Despite the fried prozac, the eye twitch persisted, due to what I reckon to be unrelenting stress secondary to the maniacal studying I've been doing in preparation for my driving theory exam this week (yesterday). Yes, I realize the absurdity of my former line, but I sincerely have never had so much fear going into an exam in my entire life, not even for the Hepatitis C exam following the tattoo I got in Nicaragua. The prospect of the driving test made me really really afraid. Not only was it in another language, but the exam itself is more difficult than that which we Americans are accustomed to. I'm not trying to overstate its relevance [we all know nobody in this country follows the rules anyway], and certainly not my own intelligence ["pessima" according to the robot administering my practice tests], it's just a fact that in Italy you have to know the rules pertaining not only to standard motor vehicles, but also the mechanics of the car, how to change a flat tire, the rules regarding semi trucks, four-wheelers, motorcycles, scooters, three-wheelers, agricultural vehicles, trailer hitches, as well as the civil and penal codes of various infractions. And, my anxiety was definitely not assuaged by my Italian friends who insisted the test was molto molto facile. Bless them, but the fear of failure is only aggravated when you know in advance that in the event you DO fail, you'll be placed forever in the humanity category of "molto molto dumb".
So yesterday morning I collected myself (at least on the exterior), went to the Italian DMV, and after a devastating visit to the ladies', sat down to take my exam. It took me 30 minutes to complete the 40 questions and then revise them with an obsessive-compulsive-like attention to detail.
And guess what? I passed! I've never been more thrilled after an exam as I was yesterday, stoked with the kind of satisfaction that not even a cream-filled pastry can supply.
So now my sticky fingers are entitled to my very own foglio rosa, which I'm proud enough to elect as my flag and pledge allegiance. H E L L O . G O R G E O U S.