I have a doctor’s appointment today, so I showered. It was the least I could do. As much as I want to cancel, I know it’s important to have regular check ups. Especially when it comes to the girly gadgets. It’s not pleasant, and I already hear myself apologizing for not having shaved my legs.
In truth though, what I fear, even more than stirrups, is getting on the scale. I don’t fear the number. I don’t fear what I’ll think. I just don’t want to know how much weight I’ve gained in a year. I don’t want to hear observations or tsk sounds. Because I know. Because my pants know. Because my second chin already yelled at the first one today.
I’ll go. But I don’t want to. I might break down and cry about how exhausted I am, but I know it’ll only lead to a blood test, where someone will be hopeful that my thyroid is out of tune. But it’s not. I’m just a lazy snortsnoot. No one to blame but me. I’m three kinds of tired: mentally, physically, and too tired to remember the third. This is not my best day.
Tomorrow I’ll be up at the butt crack of dawn to speak at St. Stephen’s Episcopal School about facing our fears. Not just whining but doing something about it. Ahem. I am many things, but at least I’m no hypocrite. And this time I won’t say fcuk.