I’m staring longingly at my fridge because I can’t eat anything out of it. I have a physical tomorrow morning and they’ll be drawing blood, so it’s me and water for the next ten hours or so. While this could be expected to cause general surliness, it’s not what has me fidgety.
I’m an enormous hypochondriac as it is. And while I’m probably in the most fit I’ve been in years and feel much more optimistic about the prospect of a physical than I would have four months and thirty-five pounds ago, there’s a part of me that’s expecting the other shoe to drop. As in, “Yes, your weight is great, your blood pressure looks good, but your cholesterol should have killed you a month ago and you have these seventeen diseases.”
I guess I just don’t want to be discouraged by feeling like all the progress I’ve made recently has been for naught if something else pops up. Which I know shouldn’t be the case; thirty-five pounds lighter is thirty-five pounds lighter, no matter what comes from my appointment tomorrow. That’s good work. That’s a difference. And if anything does show up, I’m probably in a better condition to deal with it thanks to the weight I’ve lost.
But what’s this calm rationality doing mixing with my rampant paranoia? Away with you! I have gout and diabetes and heart disease and various cancers to worry about! I’m a human petri dish! Typhoid Richard, they call me!
Okay, maybe not the typhus, but I’m not ruling out the gout.