Because The Guy on my Couch has a job that requires a car, and I am benevolent enough to allow him to use mine, I’m stranded at my house most of the time. It’s okay – really. I get to indulge in my workaholic ways as much as I want without the pesky Real World getting in the way.
It’s okay until I have to go to the doctor. THEN, I have to ask my mother to drive me. Which, I tell everyone, is a condition of my parole, but that’s a lie – I’m on house arrest.
On Tuesday, my mother picked me up and took me to the endocrinologist so I could a) note that I’d gained 10 pounds, and 2) cry because I’d gained 10 pounds. Also: my 6 month check-up.
Of all my doctors, my endo is my favorite and not just because I get to People Watch in the waiting room and loudly proclaim – I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM in a high nasally voice (although that helps)(it’s not like I can be all I HAVE A VAGINA in my OB’s office)(it’s redundant).
Having a glandular problem not NEARLY as glamorous as you might think – I was ultimately convinced that my thyroid – that asshole – had taken off for greener, less diseased pastures. Like Detroit or Wyoming or something.
Turns out that I was wrong.
My thyroid is still firmly ensconced in my neck and, here’s where shit gets awesome, has grown a friend. His asshole friend carries a 5% risk of cancer. With friends like these, you don’t need enemies.
I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably a benign cyst or an oyster or diamond or something.
At least, I hope.
I sure do like diamonds. And horses. Not zebras. Never zebras.