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Three Hundred Sixty Six.

I know what you’re thinking.

Nope. I still don’t have any answers. And I still don’t feel like a grown up. Maybe slightly closer, but I still don’t even want to have to take care of a houseplant.

SIDENOTE: Somehow I manage to keep my dogs alive and happy. I don’t know how that works. Life Math is weird.

…Maybe I’m just not a green thumb.

Anyway.

My BFF Jo texted me yesterday and said, “It’s your last day as a 26 year old.”

At first I kind of panicked. Holy shitballs. 26. It’s over. I feel like it just started. I know it sounds like a super cliche, but in some ways, it really was like the blink of an eye.

I started this blog a year ago as a challenge to myself as a writer. Early in 2012, I kind of lost faith in myself. I hit a major rough patch and thought wow, maybe I’m actually a terrible writer. Maybe I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe I don’t want to ever write again. Of course, I eventually came around and realized that writing is the thing I love the most. And in the same vein, I knew that if I wanted to be a writer, I’d have to write.

But I was kind of scared.

So I promised myself I would write something every day.

I wasn’t really expecting that forcing myself to write a blog post every day – a story that somehow led to me learning a life lesson, no matter how small – would help me be happy. I saw it as much more of an exercise than anything else. And an opportunity to maybe be funny. But I have to say, writing this blog has given me a completely different outlook on my entire life. It’s helped me understand how my past has made me who I am. It’s helped me work through a lot of difficult times and put a positive spin on things I would have never otherwise laughed at. It’s helped me approach life in a much more open, accepting way.

Like, happen to me, life: I’m ready to learn from you.

That was a disaster. Oh well, next time will be better!

I can’t believe that just happened. I am mortified. Also, that was hilarious. I can’t wait to tell people.

I did it! Someone pat me on the fucking back!

I hate everything right now. Surely someone will understand.

I am hurting. I need to know it’s going to be okay.

This is weird. Does everyone feel this way?

Did that just happen? SRSLY?!

At the same time, I had come to a bit of a crossroads with myself. I had hit a self-love low. I was feeling depressed, defeated, discouraged, you name it. I decided enough was enough: it was time to make the active decision to be happy.

I also discovered that Jayne Mansfield had stretchmarks. And my world was turned upside down. In a good way.

To quote myself (is that totally pretentious? I’m trying to recap, shut up.):

Jayne Mansfield, the American actress, singer, Playboy playmate, and all around drop-dead gorgeous bombshell, was flawed in a way that has been the root of much of my self-consciousness for all of my teenage and adult life.

So…all of that got me here.

SIDENOTE: It’s really hard writing the last post of a 365-day blog.

It’s going to be difficult to let this blog go. I know I’m going to wake up tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and my first thought is going to be, “What can I write about today?” or, “Oh shit! I still have to blog today!”

But I’m looking forward to channelling my creative energy into a number of other projects that I’ve already either started or am about to. So I guess what I’m saying is I’m not going anywhere. Maybe there will be another blog. Maybe not. But I promise there will be something.

I was trying to think of a fun way to commemorate the end of this blog.

Here’s what I came up with.

Jayne Mansfield had stretchmarks.

jayne

And so do I.

Image2

xA

P.S. It’s hilariously ironic that in the majority of the pin-up photos I took, my stretchmarks aren’t that visible. Because they’re everywhere.

But I guess there’s a life lesson in that, isn’t there?

I’m probably the only one who really notices them.

Image7_2

P.P.S. Things I meant to write but forgot: Happy Birthday to me! Also, here’s to 27! I’m crazy excited for it!

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Three Hundred Sixty Five.

I know this is a 365-day blog, but this is technically the penultimate post, because it’s a birthday to birthday thing. And tomorrow’s my birthday!

600px-US_27.svg

SIDENOTE: Have you bought me a birthday present yet? We can’t be friends if you didn’t because all I care about is material possessions.

Anyway, I thought what better way to spend the second-last day of my crazy year-long blog than looking back on some of its best moments?

SIDENOTE: Maybe that should say best/”best”…

Think of this, if you will, as a flashback episode of your favourite TV sitcom. With the help of a couple friends, I’ve compiled some categories I think you’ll enjoy.

Without further ado…

Top 5 Stupid Kid Moments

photo(1)

Oh boy. Where to even start with this one?! Well, okay…

1. Pressing buttons was (OKAY, STILL IS) a thing I loved doing. See examples A and B.

2. Of course, there was the time I electrocuted myself

3. The day I put scissors through my finger

4. Setting fire to things is never a good idea.

5. Neither is writing a hate letter to your childhood friend.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

I have to give honourable mention to the day I learned that “bastard” is a bad word. Oh, and also to the combination of shaving off my eyebrows and getting hair extensions.

And guess what?! It’s your lucky day. I found a photo of teenage Andrea with hair extensions and no eyebrows. And apparently I have no shame because I’m gonna post it on the Internet.

Extensions

Boy oh boy oh boy.

Moving on!

Top 5 Most Awkward Moments

If you haven’t deduced by now, I am the QUEEN OF AWKWARD. This is quite the random assortment, but I feel it encompasses who I am pretty well…

1. The day a goat ate my t-shirt. (Enough said.) (Stupid goats.) (Seriously, why would she do that to me?!) (Ugh.) (I fucking loved that t-shirt.) (SOB.)

2. The day I learned about orgasms in sex ed. (Is anyone else craving cake?!)

3. Barrel-chested. That is all.

4. The day the National Poet of Scotland called me stupid. Which I really should add to my resume.

5. My elementary school “boobies” moment.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

There are so, so many, but I feel like my Pilates FAIL and my Zumba BARF moments were pretty grand.

Top 5 “SRSLY?!” Moments

You know those moments. The ones that make you go, “what the fucking?!”

1. People and my tattoos. Why are people so weird about my tattoos?

2. That time a guy threw a book at my face. No big deal.

3. NO I DON’T WANT TO TAN.

4. Nothing says “what the fuck?” like getting pepper sprayed!

5. Also charming: when people tell you how to pronounce your own name

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

I have to give myself a shout out for fucking up my neck by making fun of someone on a Zumba DVD. Because who the fuck does that? This girl, right here.

But the greatest honourable mention in this category goes to Glasgow, Scotland, where I experienced so many WTF things, including…

Finding a tooth in an ATM.

Finding a used tampon on a bus.

And buses in general.

Among so many others. I fucking love you, Glasgow. I really do.

Top 5 Workplace Blunders

It’s a wonder I still have my job. It really is. It’s also a wonder I still have any self-confidence after all of the stupid humbling things that have happened to me at work…

1. My friends still bring up the day I parked on the sidewalk.

2. Also charming: locking yourself in a stairwell on your first day of work.

3. Or, you know, getting caught dancing in the bathroom.

4. Similarly, walking in on your coworkers in the bathroom.

5. Or traumatizing them with your hair colour.

BONUS PHOTO:

Getting caught taking a selfie at work.

Work selfie

At least I know my office mate loves me and doesn’t judge me.

Top 5 Relationship/Sex Fails

Look. I’d prefer we don’t dwell on how much I suck at relationships, okay? OKAY?!

1. I have been known to throw myself at guys I like.

2. I’ve learned the hard way that spin the bottle will only break your heart.

3. So will going after guys who don’t care that you exist. (But you can keep trying to shout “LOVE ME! LOOOOOVE MEEEE!” at them. Trust me. Guys SUPER love that.)

4. I’m good at ending up in awkward sex situations.

5. And awkward kissing situations, sometimes.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS AND A BONUS PHOTO:

Okay, well, first of all, heartbreak, right?

I think I also screwed it up with this guy, because he was clearly paying me a compliment.

Let’s not forget all of my failed marriages. Sigh.

And the time a MONSTER RASH ruined my potential Scottish boyfriend.

And hey, since I’ve already shown you how great I looked with hair extensions as an eyebrowless wonder, here’s a photo of me in the midst of the MONSTER RASH attack. This was after I managed to get my eyes open, because they were swollen shut.

Photo 130

Good lord…

Top 5 Accomplishments

I didn’t screw up everything, though. I’ve done some stuff. Yeah. I do things! I TCB every once in a while!

1. I’ve gotten over a lot of fear to become a Zumba instructor.

2. Then I stuck with it for a year and changed my life.

3. I grew back my eyebrows, guys. I fucking did it!

4. I got over some serious “I can’t!” bullshit and also tried wall climbing.

5. Oh, hey, I also learned how to embrace myself sometimes. I think that’s pretty huge.

HONOURABLE MENTION:

I BLOGGED EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR 365 FUCKING DAYS.

A year, guys. A YEAR.

I’m excited to celebrate my birthday with you all tomorrow.

xA

P.S. I know what you’re thinking. There totally should have been some sort of crazy travel category. But I just couldn’t narrow that shit down. So you’ll just have to re-read my entire blog to enjoy.

Three Hundred Thirty Seven.

Speaking of all of the super cool crafts I made when I was a kid, here’s a good story we can all learn from…

I wish I could remember just what it was that I was attempting to create, but I can assure you it was awesome. I was always up to something as a kid, whether it was running a private library or ringing doorbells.

I think it was some sort of hanging ornament, because the task that really tripped me up was punching a hole into the bottom dish from a box of chocolates. You know the ones – they have a number of small cups in them, one for each Pot of Gold chocolate or whatever. Yeah, that. I was trying to make a hole in the bottom of one of the small cups to that I could put a string through it. The plastic was really thick, though, so using a pen wasn’t working. I decided that scissors were the way to go.

But I wasn’t using Crayola scissors, folks. I had the real deal.

scissors

Uh oh.

So, um, not only did the scissors go through the chocolate dish like a hot knife slicing through butter…they also went into my finger – well into my finger – which was holding the plastic tight and got in the way.

I could see the sharp metal threatening to come through the other side of my finger. So I did what any kid (or just me) would do: ripped the scissors out of my finger and started screaming.

My memory after that is a little sketchy, but when I think of this instance in my life, I always flash back to the white dish towel my mom held to my hand, which was completely soaked in blood.

I probably should have gotten stitches, but I didn’t. (In fact, I wouldn’t get stitches for the first time until like, 20 years later…) My mom managed to stop the bleeding, bandaged me up really well, and eventually it healed. I had the scar for a really long time, but now it’s mostly faded, so maybe I actually just made that whole story up. (I didn’t.)

Lesson learned: They make those shitty plastic scissors for kids for a reason. Don’t put scissors through your finger. It fucking sucks.

xA

P.S. What was your biggest childhood crafting disaster? (Preferably a disaster in the sense that you injured yourself. I could talk messy disasters for years without running out of stories!)

Three Hundred Thirty Three.

Let me tell you a little bit about iron…

Actually, let me tell you what the all-knowing WebMD has to say about iron:

Iron is an essential mineral. The major reason we need it is that it helps to transport oxygen throughout the body. Iron is an important component of hemoglobin, the substance in red blood cells that carries oxygen from your lungs to transport it throughout your body. Hemoglobin represents about two-thirds of the body’s iron. If you don’t have enough iron, your body can’t make enough healthy oxygen-carrying red blood cells. A lack of red blood cells is called iron deficiency anemia.

Without healthy red blood cells, your body can’t get enough oxygen. If you’re not getting sufficient oxygen in the body, you’re going to become fatigued. That exhaustion can affect everything from your brain function to your immune system’s ability to fight off infections.

These are red blood cells. I think they look like some sort of delicious candy...
These are red blood cells. I think they look like some sort of delicious candy…

Low iron runs in my family. It’s something I struggled with a lot as a teenager. I basically spent a chunk of life rotating between being on and off iron supplements after a bunch of fainting and feeling terrible. But it hasn’t bothered me for years. Years.

About a month ago, I thought I had the flu. I was getting bad headaches and feeling really tired and generally blah. I stayed in bed for a weekend and it kind of went away. I still had headaches and light-headedness, but I ignored them because I’m a busy (see: stupid and stubborn sometimes) lady.

In the back of my mind I thought, “Hmmm. I never get headaches. I wonder if my iron levels have dropped.

Then, a few weeks ago, I was scheduled to donate blood for the first time in my life. I was crazy excited to do so, because Canada is experiencing a severe shortage right now, and for the first time since I turned 18, I’ve had a long enough gap between getting tattoos to be eligible.

I got to the clinic and filled out the appropriate paperwork. My name got called and I sat down in front of a nurse.

“Okay,” she said, “We just need to do a quick finger prick test to make sure your iron levels are high enough to donate. You need to be at 125 or higher.”

Oh, shit,” I thought, mentally willing my blood to come out dark and juicy.

Finger prick.

Test.

“Hmm,” she wrinkled her nose, “You’re only at 120.”

“Oh, of course,” I rolled my eyes at myself, “Ugh, I have a tendency for low iron.”

“Well, sometimes the first test is low. Would you like to try again?”

“Sure, go for it.”

I upped my mental powers as much as I could.

Finger prick.

This time she squeezed a lot of blood out of my finger before testing. Getting deeper? I dunno.

“It’s better, but not good enough,” she sighed, “122. You’re going to have to up your iron before you can donate.”

I felt like such a failure.

I know it’s silly to feel like a failure about my own blood, but I totally did. I was so ready to help people who needed blood and my blood wasn’t…rich(?) enough!

So I immediately upped my intake of iron-rich foods, which isn’t difficult because I eat a lot of iron-rich foods anyway. Lentils and greens are staple foods in my world.

I was starting to feel a bit more normal until this week hit. This week that I started my six-days-a-week teaching schedule, with lots of practice and prep time necessary.

I guess I really depleted myself because yesterday, I had a full-on CRASH.

I woke up and could barely, barely drag my ass out of bed. I blamed not sleeping enough, and all the construction that is going on all around my house (living on a corner sucks when they’re re-paving sidewalks and streets…). My head felt like it was going to explode, but I had a ton on my agenda for the day, so I ignored it.

The fact that taking my dogs to the vet was first on my agenda didn’t help, because my dogs are so embarrassing at the vet. They bark and freak out. A lot. It takes them a long time to settle down and then if a new dog or person walks into the room, they start all over again. My patience was wearing thin and my headache was really starting to get to me.

I started to feel really sad.

I got my dogs home and got ready for the next thing on my agenda: lunch with a friend.

I had a spinach salad, which I guess was a good headstart on pumping some iron into my day, but of course it wasn’t enough. I started to notice that I was having a really hard time concentrating and forming sentences. My head was pounding even though I was drinking lots of water and had eaten plenty. I was starting to feel like I was spiraling down a sadness well.

Uh oh.

“I have to go buy iron supplements like, now.” I said to my friend as we parted ways.

And boy, was I right. By the time I got to the natural foods store, I was shaking. I felt like I could barely grip the steering wheel of my car. As I walked through the parking lot, I worried about collapsing or tripping over my own feet, which felt like they couldn’t move. I fought back the very intense desire to burst into tears. Everything seemed hopeless and slow-motion.

I knew that taking a single iron supplement was not going to make me feel any better, so I took one, and then also pumped my body full of sugar. I managed to get home without crying – though I did freak out via text with a couple friends – I laid down, had a 20-minute nap, and then I had to teach a Zumba class.

SIDENOTE: Oh boy. That was hard. And a little scary. But I survived!

So, here’s hoping that in a week or so, I’m back to normal Andrea. Because low-iron-Andrea is more than a bit of a weirdo. And not nearly as fun as usual.

Iron, man, it can really, really mess with you if you don’t have enough of it. I thought I was done learning that the hard way, but I guess I needed one more reminder. Never again!

xA

Two Hundred Eighty Six.

I’m having an identity crisis.

Here’s the thing. I was a little kid and then I grew up and I grew taller and taller until I was 5’6″ and then I stopped. And I spent oh, 20 years or so believing I was 5’6″. And that was fine because I had no reason to think otherwise.

But then about a year and a half ago, I went to the doctor for a full physical, and when they measured me, the nurse said, “Great, so you’re 5’4″.”

It probably doesn’t seem like a big deal, but it’s sort of like when you realize you’ve accidentally been telling people you’re one year older or younger than you are. It’s disorienting.

I was disoriented.

I had just lost height I thought I had.

If we’ve been friends long enough, you may even remember seeing my disoriented rant on Facebook. “What the hell?” it probably said, “How does one just go from being 5’6″ to being 5’4″?! Do I have to change my lifestyle now?! And who told me I was 5’6″ to begin with?!

WELL DO I HAVE A STORY FOR YOU LOT.

Today I went to a meet and greet with my new doctor. I’ve been having a hell of a time dealing with rude, incompetent doctors for the last few months and I finally – hallelujah! – got in with one of my BFF’s doctors.

(She’s totally awesome, by the way. Yay!)

Because it was my first visit, I had to fill out all of the standard paperwork, and then a nurse took me aside for height and weight.

I stood under her giant ruler thing, already well aware of my height.

“Great,” she said, making a note on her clipboard, “so you are…5’6″.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re 5’6″?” she repeated, clearly not sure what I was getting at.

“Oh, great. Yeah. I knew that.” I laughed.

And on the inside I was like, “THIS AGAIN?!?!

Lesson learned: It doesn’t actually matter how tall you are, but if somebody asks you, it would be NICE TO KNOW THE TRUTH.

Ruler

I’m almost 27 and I have no idea how tall I actually am.

xA

Two Hundred Seventy Eight.

Full disclosure: I totally didn’t/don’t feel like blogging today.

Of course, I have my days where I’m just like, “Seriously?! I’ve got better things to do!” and days where I’m like, “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO SAY.”

Tina Eye Roll

The truth is this: keeping this blog has definitely taught me that I do learn something new every day. Whether those things are things I want to share with the Internet, or whether those things are interesting enough to share with the Internet is another story.

At any rate, there it is. Today I’m not a huge fan of my own blog.

But I did learn something.

I went to the hospital this morning for my MRI. Like I said yesterday, I was lucky to not have to wait more than a few months for it, because the wait time can be 12 months or more. I was even luckier this morning because I got in to do the MRI like, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. Score.

My co-worker was right. It’s pretty claustrophobic, and it’s definitely a long time to hold still. What got me the most, though, was how fucking LOUD it is. The sounds were literally making me queasy after a while. I might as well have been lying on the street while someone jack-hammered an Andrea-shaped hole around me or something. So I wasn’t prepared for that, but I survived.

The lesson I learned is that an MRI, though uncomfortable and mildly stressful, is not as bad as a biopsy,* which I had done last month, and which was pretty gross. (Especially when I removed my own stitches after the fact.)

That’s all for today. Chatty Cathy over here, right?

xA

*And a lot of other things I’ve had to do, and a lot of other things I’m lucky to have never needed to do.

Two Hundred Seventy Seven.

Here’s the thing: I’ve never really thought about what an MRI is.

Maybe that seems crazy, but it’s not something that’s ever really applied to me. So I just assumed it was sort of like an X-Ray. -ish….

I suppose I should have assumed there was more to it than that, because the wait can be so long to get one. When a doctor prescribed me an MRI a few months ago, he told me it could be a year – or even longer – until I actually got it.

“Basically, you request it, and then you wait. And you wait. And then you wait some more. And after you’re done waiting…you actually wait more.”

(He was the one funny/nice doctor I’ve encountered in my stupid knee saga.)

I’m lucky that I didn’t have to wait a year, because my MRI is bright and early tomorrow morning.

“What are you up to this weekend?” one of my co-workers asked me when I left work on Thursday.

“Lots of Zumba teaching…oh, and I have an MRI for my knee.”

“Ugh! You have to get an MRI?!”

“Yes…?!”

“Oh, they’re awful! I hate getting MRIs.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, they’re the worst!”

“Why?”

“Because you have to like, lie still, and it’s so claustrophobic and it’s loud and you can’t move and you have to lie on this like, hard plastic thing and not move and you’re just trying to breathe because it feels so tight and awful and loud and it always takes longer than they say it will.”

“……Fuck.”

Guys, I totally never put two and two together that this is an MRI machine:

MRI

I’ve seen them on TV, in movies. I’ve thought, “Oog, what an uncomfortable experience thati must be.” But I’ve never added it up in my head that that = MRI.

So guess what I’ve been FREAKING THE HELL OUT ABOUT for the last three days?

Lesson learned: Sometimes it’s good to have no idea what you’ve signed up for. Because you’re gonna cross the bridge you have to cross when you get there.

Now, can someone else who’s had an MRI tell me it’s no big deal? I may not sleep otherwise.

xA

Two Hundred Fifty Two.

So on Sunday I did something I never really saw myself doing.

It’s not something I would have even deemed safe if not for my crazy (loveable) dermatologist telling me to.

“Yeah, yeah! Just wait 10 days and snip them off! It’s easy!”

I removed my own stitches.

The first one came out like a dream: one cut with very tiny scissors and it basically fell out of my foot. The second one, though, put up a fight. The battle involved me, my tiny scissors, a pair of tweezers, and a lot of wincing and loud-talking to myself about stuff that is not stitches.

It was a bit of a harrowing experience.

I can tell you this much: I learned two things that day.

  1. Removing stitches is slightly trickier than my dermatologist made it sound.
  2. I now feel like I’ve earned some sort of degree. So if you need a medical opinion on something, I’m totally comfortable with that.

xA

Two Hundred Forty Three.

Last week, I went to see my dermatologist and ended up needing to get a biopsy (it’s a “just to be 100% sure scenario – my doctor is very confident it’s nothing serious). I had never gotten a biopsy before, but the doctor assured me it would be quick and easy. An extra 10 minutes of my time and a couple stitches.

I was a little nervous, but he put me at ease.

Now, I’ve only seen my dermatologist once before, so we haven’t spent much time in the same room, but I really like him. He’s very thorough, doesn’t seem like he’s rushing, and he’s always open to questions. He’s really soft spoken and kind. And he’s always got a smile to offer, which is very refreshing.

So he left his nurse to do the prep work, which in this case just meant a shot of local anaesthetic to the top of my foot. That was another first for me. The nurse warned me it would sting before going numb, and she was right.

“Wow!” I said, laughing nervously, “You weren’t kidding!”

“Yeah, it’s got a bite to it, for sure. It’s an acidic base – well, basically, it’s like injecting an acid into your skin, so…”

“…Lovely!”

She left me to my own devices for a few minutes to allow the anaesthetic to do its thing. I mostly just wished I had brought my Kobo with me to the examining table, because it was kind of a boring wait and hopping to the other side of the room at that point didn’t seem like a great decision. I noticed the top of my foot was turning really white all around where the nurse had injected the anaesthetic. “Weird,” I thought to myself, “But probably normal.”

A few minutes later, my doctor returned.

“Just lay back and relax,” he said, “Look at that – your foot turned nice and white! Ha!”

“Yeah, I noticed that – it’s so strange!”

“Yep, it does that – totally normal!”

“Cool.”

The doctor chuckled to himself.

“Can you imagine if I had come back in here and looked at that and gone, ‘OH MY GOD!’ and run out the door for backup?”

(Inner monologue: “Hey, my doctor’s joking with me! That’s funny!”)

“Ha Ha Ha! Yeah, that would be hilarious! And alarming! But funny!”

“That would be so funny! Oh my god. Can you imagine? Just ‘OH NO!’ and out the door. TOO FUNNY!”

“Yeah.” I laughed again.

(Inner monologue: “This guy’s kind of kooky. I like it! Especially after the last three months of asshole doctors and no-show doctors I’ve dealt with in trying to figure out my knee injury. This is great!”)

“OH MY GOD! Ha Ha Ha Ha!”

(Inner monologue: “Oooookay. Let’s do this thing. Procedure time. Business time.”)

As my doctor started getting more seriously prepared to do the biopsy, he continued to joke around.

“I should do that! I should totally do that!”

“Ha…Yeah, totally.”

(Inner monologue: “Are you cutting into my foot yet?”)

“Just, ‘OH MY GOD! It’s not supposed to look like that!’ Ha Ha Ha!”

“Do it to someone you know, definitely.”

(Inner monologue: “I wish I could see what’s going on down there. Scratch that – no I don’t. I’m sure everything’s fine.”)

“Yeah, totally to someone I know. Otherwise I’d get in trouble with the board!”

“No doubt, ha ha…”

(Inner monologue: “Business time! Right?”)

At this point, I couldn’t help but wonder if my doctor focusing on the task at hand. A different nurse came in and he repeated the whole story to her, laughing away.

“Seriously, though! I have to do it! Can you imagine the board, too? I’d be standing in front of them like, ‘It was a joke!’ and no one would be laughing! Ha!”

“Yeah…hilarious, totally.”

(Inner monologue: “ARE YOU DONE CUTTING A PIECE OF MY FOOT OFF?”)

“Toooooooooo funny. I have to do it.”

I smiled at him, and then at the nurse who was laughing along even though she spoke almost no English. We had officially moved into awkward territory.

I have to say, while it confused the hell out of me, it was a great distraction from what was going on, which was maybe my doctor’s tactic the entire time. It kind of made me like him even more. But also, it definitely caught me off guard. Maybe I needed to lighten up? Maybe the world of medicine could benefit from more laughs in the examination room?

Whatever the answer to those questions, I walked out of there with two new life lessons:

(A) In my mind, that is exactly what going to see Ken Jeong as a doctor would be like.

fhd007KNP_Ken_Jeong_001

(B) While I love a little humour and light-heartedness at my doctor’s appointments, I guess I’m a little more uptight than I thought. I’ve got a definite limit before I start to wonder if your framed license and degree came from the Internet.*

xA

*I’m kidding, of course. My dermatologist rocks.

P.S. Having stitches is weird. I’ve never had stitches before, and they’re driving me crazy. They don’t hurt anymore or anything. It’s just the fact that they’re there. There are KNOTS. Like, in my SKIN. THERE ARE KNOTS IN MY SKIN. And I can see them! And I’m paranoid they’re gonna catch on everything even though I cover them with a bandage. And I want to CUT THEM OFF.

So that’s been my last four or five days. Just thinking about stitches and how fucking weird they are.

Here’s a bonus life lesson: I’m far too neurotic for stitches.

(I didn’t cut them off. Yet. I have to wait until the 26th to do that.)

P.P.S. Today makes it official: I’m two-thirds of the way through this 365-day project. Insane.

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