I am going to start off by saying this: yes, I can understand how, in the past, there may have been certain situations where I came across as being somewhat of a hypochondriac. However, given my family's long history of cancer, I feel I have worrying rights.
Okay, yeah, I admit, there was that one time when I may have slightly overreacted by thinking I had the West Nile virus after chewing a piece of expired—like, last-decade-expired—Nicorette gum. Hello? I was dizzy, diaphoretic, nauseated and disoriented. I may have had a high fever. Or not. Who knows? I didn't have a thermometer at the time, so shoot me. What the hell else was I supposed to think? At the time, the media was shoving the bird flu—oh, wait... no... was it SARS? Crap, I can't remember. But let's just say I've had a shit-load of (non-sexually transmitted) infectious diseases, it's a wonder I'm still alive. Okay, come to think of it, they may have been just hangovers, but whatever.
I, personally, don't consider myself a hypochondriac so much as I consider myself a person who is just really in tune with her body. Like this one time, for instance, I knew there was something up with my ovary—something other than mittelschmerz. Remember that, coworkers? Do you remember how I left in the middle of work on a Sunday to have Sally, my friend/doctor, take me over to her office to do a sonogram—the invasive, violating kind—and she found a 4cm cyst on my ovary? And do you remember how when I showed you the pictures of my 4CM OVARIAN CYST, you guys did that little twirly thing in the air with your index fingers and rolled your eyes and you were all, like "Big Whoop! It's a 4cm cyst!" But see? I knew there was something growing on my ovary. Granted, it wasn't a tumor like I had originally suggested, but I knew something was awry. Why? Because I'm HIGHLY IN TUNE WITH MY BODY.
Oh, and another thing? When Gainer's cyst ruptured, she had to go to the E.R. for pain management. Not me. I was all, like... Cyst's gone. That was easy! Which means I probably have a very high pain threshold, which means I could probably give birth without an epidural. Actually, on second thought, I'm going to retract that last statement, on the chance I end up pregnant from all the heterosexual sex I'm going to be having because I need to prove to my family that, despite their suspicions, I'm not gay. Not that there is anything wrong with being gay, but I'm not. I'm just a single, independent woman in her ____ties, who is really, really picky commitment-phobe with daddy issues.
So, anyway, on my way to work today, I spilled coffee on my crotch. Thank God it wasn't scalding hot. With it being a balls-to-the-wall busy kind of day, I didn't pee until after I got home from work. So, as I'm sitting on the toilet, I'm thinking... Wowzer, I must be really dehydrated because my pee smells just like coffee. Imagine my fear when I looked down at my undies and saw this gigantic, rust-colored stain. In that split second, my brain consulted its own internal Web-MD and came up with three different diagnoses:
*sniff, sniff* Holy Christmas, that definitely smells like coff—oh, wait a sec... it is coffee!
Phew! Thank God I solved that little mystery, because now I'm deeply troubled by the fact that I could spill coffee on myself at 6:30 a.m. (okay, 6:45—I was running late) and forget about it by two o'clock in the afternoon. That's not normal. It can only mean one thing...
I have Early-onset Alzheimer's, which would also explain why I can't remember going on a date with this guy...
Okay, yeah, I admit, there was that one time when I may have slightly overreacted by thinking I had the West Nile virus after chewing a piece of expired—like, last-decade-expired—Nicorette gum. Hello? I was dizzy, diaphoretic, nauseated and disoriented. I may have had a high fever. Or not. Who knows? I didn't have a thermometer at the time, so shoot me. What the hell else was I supposed to think? At the time, the media was shoving the bird flu—oh, wait... no... was it SARS? Crap, I can't remember. But let's just say I've had a shit-load of (non-sexually transmitted) infectious diseases, it's a wonder I'm still alive. Okay, come to think of it, they may have been just hangovers, but whatever.
I, personally, don't consider myself a hypochondriac so much as I consider myself a person who is just really in tune with her body. Like this one time, for instance, I knew there was something up with my ovary—something other than mittelschmerz. Remember that, coworkers? Do you remember how I left in the middle of work on a Sunday to have Sally, my friend/doctor, take me over to her office to do a sonogram—the invasive, violating kind—and she found a 4cm cyst on my ovary? And do you remember how when I showed you the pictures of my 4CM OVARIAN CYST, you guys did that little twirly thing in the air with your index fingers and rolled your eyes and you were all, like "Big Whoop! It's a 4cm cyst!" But see? I knew there was something growing on my ovary. Granted, it wasn't a tumor like I had originally suggested, but I knew something was awry. Why? Because I'm HIGHLY IN TUNE WITH MY BODY.
Oh, and another thing? When Gainer's cyst ruptured, she had to go to the E.R. for pain management. Not me. I was all, like... Cyst's gone. That was easy! Which means I probably have a very high pain threshold, which means I could probably give birth without an epidural. Actually, on second thought, I'm going to retract that last statement, on the chance I end up pregnant from all the heterosexual sex I'm going to be having because I need to prove to my family that, despite their suspicions, I'm not gay. Not that there is anything wrong with being gay, but I'm not. I'm just a single, independent woman in her ____ties, who is really, really picky commitment-phobe with daddy issues.
So, anyway, on my way to work today, I spilled coffee on my crotch. Thank God it wasn't scalding hot. With it being a balls-to-the-wall busy kind of day, I didn't pee until after I got home from work. So, as I'm sitting on the toilet, I'm thinking... Wowzer, I must be really dehydrated because my pee smells just like coffee. Imagine my fear when I looked down at my undies and saw this gigantic, rust-colored stain. In that split second, my brain consulted its own internal Web-MD and came up with three different diagnoses:
1) Sally misdiagnosed my cyst a couple of months back, and I really do have ovarian cancer. Fuck, I'm a goner.
2) It's probably bladder cancer from all the times I've held my urine at work for hours on end.
3) Judging by the odor, I likely have Maple Syrup Urine disease.Like any other time I've self-diagnosed, I had to employ my big-gun-assessment skills, so I moved in for the obligatory sniff test...
*sniff, sniff* Holy Christmas, that definitely smells like coff—oh, wait a sec... it is coffee!
Phew! Thank God I solved that little mystery, because now I'm deeply troubled by the fact that I could spill coffee on myself at 6:30 a.m. (okay, 6:45—I was running late) and forget about it by two o'clock in the afternoon. That's not normal. It can only mean one thing...
I have Early-onset Alzheimer's, which would also explain why I can't remember going on a date with this guy...
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this picture proves that I'm as straight as they come!
6 comments:
Awwww, thanks for the shout out there Rachel! And for the record... That hurt like HELL and dilaudid is God sent!
I spilled hot soup on my crotch once. I don't eat soup in my lap anymore.
I hate the way pee smells after you eat asparagus.
I'd like to put 'seeking tall skinny crotchuccino' on a dating profile and watch the responses flow in.
All I got out of this whole article is that your pee smells funny... and that you bear a freaky-striking resemblance to the goddess Jessica Beale. I guess if I had to learn something after midnight, those were worthy bits of usable knowledge... thanks. Again :-)
What about the possibility that you're just bat shit crazy? I pretty much chalk up everything in my life to that (frighteningly accurate) diagnosis.
Gainer: My pleasure. Mandy: Apparently, the asparagus pee thing is related to a gene. Sounds like you got it. Wow: After reading this, I can't decide if my title sounds racist or sexist. Bill: All I got from your comment is that I have a striking resemblance to Jessica Beal. Thanks, dude. CF: Crazy people don't know they're crazy. That's my stance and I'm sticking to it;) Thanks so much for reading and commenting. You guys are awesome blog friends!
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