Because I am 137 years old.

Today was BeneFest! at Corporate Behemoth.

BeneFest! was an exciting opportunity for all employees of Corporate Behemoth to grab free shit, such as magnetic clippie things from the 401(k) people. My favorite was a plastic card from the vision insurance people – you look through it and it’s like you have macular degeneration. Disturbing, yet strangely pleasing.

At BeneFest!, I also got a flu shot and had my finger pricked for glucose and cholesterol screening. This was my first cholesterol screening since my doctor sounded the “Sweet Jesus, your blood is actually butter!” alarm in March.

The months and months and months of fish oil, niacin and green tea have paid off. My cholesterol dropped 36 glorious points. I’m now in the high normal category.

I about started breakdancing in the middle of BeneFest!. It was glorious. I wish they had a Jenny Craig for cholesterol, because I could totally be the spokesmodel/Kirstie Alley wannabe.

In honor of my health breakthrough, I’m going to eat approximately 72 pounds of Halloween candy tonight. Diabetic coma? Don’t mind if I do!

Best. Advice. Ever.

Astute reader CB suggested that I think about my stressful work situations in terms of providing wiping tutorials.

Yes. He suggests that I think about all the stuff at Corporate Behemoth as the equivalent of helping a 4-year-old use the potty.

“If you pretended that everyone at work was a 4 year old that you were teaching to wipe from front to back, you would no longer stress out at the idiocy of work. You might be able to laugh at some of the situations you end up in and then no more stress.”

Obviously, CB is a wise sage. I’ve been thinking about this all day. And I met a situation that normally would have set my hair on fire with a “Hmm – my bad.” The potty thought is working!

I’m going to add a footer to my e-mail signature. “Helping you wipe front to back since 2005.” Because two years is a freaking long time to potty train.

Making dreams come true.

I just spent a whirlwind weekend with Mr. Wonderful’s family at Disney World. I played human jungle gym for his niece and nephew. I o.d.ed on the overstimulation that is the Disney machine. And I experienced first-hand the joy that is bargaining with a 4-year-old.

Going to Disney with kids was fun – sort of like how Christmas is a totally different gig when there are young’uns around. Only a 6-year old girl would think it was totally worthwhile to stand in line for an hour to get Goofy’s autograph. I have to respect that.

This weekend was also a crash course in Stepmomming 101.

I adore Mr. Wonderful’s 4-year-old daughter. She’s a pretty low-maintenance, good-natured kid. But she’s 4. This means that at times she screamed because the sky was too blue or some such thing.

Sometimes, she wanted to hold my hand or swim only with me. Other times, she screamed because I looked at her. Again, she’s 4.

Ok.

First of all, I highly recommend a weekend with an exhausted and over stimulated 4-year-old for any idealistic, moon-eyed person who romanticizes about having kids. I love this kid, yet I suddenly feel super vigilant about taking my pill at the exact time every day. Down to the minute, people.

I felt like an understudy. At today’s performance, the part of Charming Young Mother will be played by Cha Cha. Walk around Disney or through the airport with a cute 4-year-old holding your hand and people will assume you’re some sort of parental figure.

I found myself wondering if I was pulling it off, or if other parents could tell with one dismissive glance, “Oh, she’s sooo not that kid’s mom.”

I also found myself looking at other parents and realizing, “OMG, these people look like me.” For some reason, I could easily identify the drunken frat guy, despite the fact that he was carrying a princess backpack and was, regrettably, sober. And that mom with the three screaming kids? Weren’t we in Econ together? When did we get old enough to be responsible for kids?

Oh, right. The rest of the world didn’t lose their desire to procreate, didn’t drop it in the parking lot one day, never to be found again. That was just me. It never showed up in the lost and found.

Truth be told, the weekend was exhausting, physically and emotionally. And dealing with the realities of a child put a new spin on my interaction with Mr. Wonderful. He’s used to this; I’m not. Not that I’m against it, but it’s new. I hope he doesn’t confuse my trepidation and teensy sense of ohjesuswhathaveigottenmyselfinto with regret or the desire to run for the nearest exit. It’s just a lot to process.

If I didn't take it seriously, this would be cake. But I do take it seriously. So I'm thinking about it seriously.

I mean, when’s the last time you gave a tutorial on the finer points of wiping from front to back? Seriously. I think I’m entitled to be a little shell-shocked.

Hot tramp, I love you so.

The intense mental preparation that went into my eight-minute meeting with Ex-Mrs. Wonderful evidently hooked up with my job stress. They made sweet, sweet love and procreated. And now I am exhausted, burned out and near tears.

I hate it when my stress and neuroses get it on and don’t use protection. When will people learn?

I have a headache in the base of my skull. And I literally considered screaming at a coworker this afternoon. She totally deserved it. But this is not who I am.

At least I weighed the pros and cons of the screaming. I determined that I couldn’t do it without crying. Since my only cry is The Ugly Cry, this was not an option. I think I lose my ability to be an effective communicator when I’m blotchy and covered in mucus.

I need to be kind to myself and take a brief respite to rally the mental troops. I know this. But I’m so upset about being burned out that I can’t even accept it. A heavy workload and an uncomfortable social situation aren’t kryptonite – I should be fine. But I’m not.

I need a break. I need to sleep. I can’t respond to any more demands right now.

I’m going to be naughty. I’m leaving work 15 whole minutes early to go to the bookstore. David Bowie wrote “Rebel, rebel” about me. Obviously.

All mature and shit.

So, I arrived at Mr. Wonderful’s home about 15 minutes before the Ex-Mrs. Wonderful (Ex-MW) was due to pick up their daughter. Mr. Wonderful, his daughter and I sat on the floor and played a game. And I sweated profusely.

Ok, not really. Just sort of.

Ex-MW showed up, all high-pitched voice and mommy excitement. We shook hands and both said, “Nice to meet you.”

And then?

And then she knocked me down, pulled my hair and beat me to a bloody pulp.

Ok, not really. She sat on the floor and, for the next eight minutes, proceeded to show off her superior mommying abilities. She was very ENGAGED with her daughter, hearing all about her day. She was very animated and energetic with her child.

I literally ceased to exist.

Ok, not really. I sat on an ottoman and smiled. Engaged, yet invisible.

And then they packed up and left. The end.

So, for eight whole minutes, I managed not to do drugs, get drunk or strip. I guess I passed. Mr. Wonderful joked that I should have been all, “You guys? I’m really nervous, and I’m more comfortable when I’m topless. Mind if I take off my shirt?”

Yet another reason why I love him.

So, the whole thing was rather anticlimactic, except, as a woman, I’m pretty sure that my appearance and behavior is being discussed (cattily?) amongst friends. I’m somewhat amazed that it was so important that she meet me, yet she literally spoke four words to me. I guess the real test was whether I could go eight minutes with no meth, likker or peeling.

I’m trying very hard not to be catty about the whole situation. I don’t want that sort of energy to taint my thinking on this one. But I will say that I can’t in a gazillion years picture Mr. Wonderful and Ex-Mrs. Wonderful together. And I’m also thankful that I basically never have to see He Who Shall Not Be Named ever, ever again.

Smile like you mean it.

You know it’s bad when Mr. Wonderful tries to find the bright side with a comment like, “Well, at least you’ll have lots to blog about.”

Due to a not very interesting set of circumstances, I am meeting with The Woman Formerly Known as Mrs. Wonderful (Ex-MW) tonight. And she is pissed as all hell. Yippee!

Although I have spent time with their daughter, this will be our very first meeting. Evidently, Ex-MW needs to check me out and make sure that I’m not a meth-dealing pedophile.

It’s a lot of pressure. Good thing I don’t drive a van.

I’m nervous like the first day of junior high, when I was absolutely certain that I wouldn’t be able to get my locker open or find any of my classes. I had reoccurring dreams about still standing at my unopened locker at the late bell, then realizing that I was naked. Having failed Junior High 101, I would be forced to walk home sans clothing.

So, yeah, this is sort of like that.

I could write about the sordid details of why we’re meeting and the back story and meow, meow, meow, but I don’t want to perpetuate that kind of energy. I will most likely be dealing with this woman for years to come and I don’t want to saddle an already challenging situation with undue negativity. Besides, the one thing that has me totally sick over this is the idea that she hates me and she doesn’t even know me. So, hopefully, I’ll earn a tiny karmic gift by not hating her sight unseen.

Besides, I’m too busy being nauseous to hate anything right now.

There are no manuals called “How to Date a Guy With a Kid.” I’ve yet to run across any stepmomming Web sites that aren’t just diatribes against the ex. All of my friends have been married since the dawn of time – I don’t know anyone who’s dated a divorced man, much less one with a child, much less one with whom they want to spend the rest of their lives. I am adrift in uncharted territory.

I shall report back. If I don’t drown.

Foxie Doxie channels Doug Henning

No, that's not Photoshopped. Yes, he's really that big of a magical canine whore.