ouch. ugh. blech.

The Ross-a-tron always rolls his eyes at me whenever I say I think I'm dying. Which is a lot of eye-rolling, to be honest. Like, I can't believe they haven't just rolled on out of his head by now. And I'm not saying this to be mean, to make the Ross-a-tron out to look like some heartless creep. He's actually very tender and understanding. I'm the one who's lost her marbles.

I'm convinced I currently have: fibromyalgia; various types of cancer, including (but not limited to) breast, skin, and colon; a brain tumor; cataracts; blocked arteries (hello, I love dairy), and a currently undiscovered rarity that is only acquired by women between the ages of 30-35 who have been south of the Mason-Dixon Line during the third Wednesday of June 2009 when it was rainy and they'd previously had cantaloupe with their breakfasts. No, I haven't been south of the Mason-Dixon Line recently, but that doesn't mean anything.

I am constantly in pain. I'm not making this up. Seriously. Pain. All the time. Every single day. My lower back, my wrists, the joint in my left thumb, and that soft spot between your shoulder and your collar bone. My shins, my arches, my hips. Sometimes it's a dull ache, other times it's a quick, shooting pain that lasts for only a second. Even my boobs hurt. Not PMS-like, but twinges that feel like electrical charges. Granted, my oncologist said that was normal after an excisional biopsy, but can't a girl catch a break?

And don't even get me started on my intestines. Let's just put it this way: the ladies' room and I are intimately involved on an hourly--yes, hourly--basis. I hate eating. If there was a pill I could take or an IV that could just hook into me once or twice a day, that'd be awesome.

So, basically, I'm convinced my body is revolting against me for, well, something. It hates me. And right now, I'm not too fond of it, either. I'm going to the doctor on the 17th of this month because I'm at the point of desperation. I'm ready to hear the hard truth. I'm ready to do whatever I have to (gasp! exercise?!) to get my body right. And I'll get bloodwork done. I'll change my diet if I have to. (Well, I'll still be a vegetarian, but I'll work harder at it.) If I have to stop wearing heels because they're throwing my bones and joints out of whack, well, then....aw, crap. Something has to give. I'm 32. I shouldn't feel like I'm 92.

And I don't want to hear anyone say, "Oh, sweetie, it just gets worse as you get older." I'm not making this up. I'm not imagining this pain. None of my other thirty-something friends feel this way. (Well, except for this one...) Something is wrong. And I have to fix it.

Even if it means staying above the Mason-Dixon Line. Or wearing--omg--flats.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

{photo from here, and loving it}