Peace Sign, Kissy-Face

I just sat down and as I was booting up the computer, I had to look around for a strange sound coming from the sofa in my living room. Seconds later, I discover it's not coming from anything other than my fat rear because I'M BREATHING LIKE A 70-YEAR-OLD-SMOKER! I had to go upstairs twice then lug my week's worth of laundry across the house and here I am, creeping myself out with my weirdo heavy breathing episode. Which is seriously the cherry on top of my "That's it! I'm freaking going to exercise next week!" declaration from yesterday.

I had an appointment with a surgeon who confirmed that I have quite the gall stone chillin' in my gall blatter (which is apparently the yoga mat of the upper intestine area...lays around, not really serving any type of purpose.) Luckily, if I can tolerate any flare-ups between now and then, I'll have a simple procedure in March and he'll just yank that thang right on out. 

 

They call me back and the sweetest little old lady takes me straight to the scale. I get on and close my eyes and look away, then avoid what she writes down because hey, if you don't see it and don't hear it, it's not there, right? Well, technically, she didn't tell me a number but she did recommend a website that shows the American Heart Association Diet and Nutritional yada yada yada. Then she shows me a chart comparing my height and weight (like I don't know) and points to my height (which I lied about by 2 inches) and starts to explain what BMI is, all the while I'm mentally going, "O-FREAKING-KAY! JEESUZ! I'LL EAT SMARTER AND EXERCISE, DAMMIT! AHHHH! Get outta my FACE!!!!!"

 

So I'm doing it. I'm going back to classes starting Monday morning at 5 o'frickin' AM and I don't want to talk anymore about it. I can't start running because I can't kid myself into thinking I'm a runner. Let's be honest. If I'm running, the only reason for that action is because I've illegally maneuvered myself on the red carpet of the Golden Globes and I've just inappropriately grabbed Chris Hemsworth and now security is chasing me. 

The worst thing a person on a diet can do is talk about their diet so I'm not. My blog won't be about getting fit and in shape because my inner slob won't allow it. Don't ask me how it's going and if you're there, don't ask me during class a thousand times if I'm okay. No I'm not okay. I have to get up at the ass-crack of Jehovah and I have to start shaving my legs. It's laundry night and I have on 10-year-old booty shorts that barely contain said booty with knock-off Ugg boots and I can't tell where the fur from the boots begins and where my shin hair ends. I'm going to be grumpy and I'm going to be moving slow. Don't talk to me unless you're going to fake compliment me on my slendering appearance. Deal? Deal. 

 

Don't zoom in. I promise you, it won't be specks on your screen. It's probably my hair.

After my inner melt-down with the nurse, I get put into this tiny room to wait 20 minutes for the doctor. What did people do before smart phones when they had to wait during times like that? There's only so much picking at your nails you can manage. I adjusted my posture 100 times because I've never seen this doctor before so what if he's hot? I don't want him to walk in and see me slouchy with bad posture. I started fidgeting with the new bangs I got the day before but I didn't have a mirror so I couldn't tell if they were strategically placed on my forehead in the cute, Zooey Deschanel kinda way or if they were the hot mess, Nicole Kidman broom-sticks.

 

I pull out my phone which I was trying not to use because I didn't want his first impression of me to be "she's one of those people who constantly have their phones although she isn't really doing anything she just wants me to think she's so important" and I start angling the blank screen so I can see my forehead. But I can't see because of a shadow so I do what every 14-year-old with a smart phone would do and that's turn on the camera and start taking selfies. And even though I make fun of them relentlessly, I pucker and make faces with my arm jacked awkwardly in the air and click away. Annnnd then enters the doctor.

 

He's super cute. And he's like, 60. With a bow-tie. Yes, this is seriously him.

I turn fifty shades of red and toss the phone in my bag. We immediately jump right into conversation. I seem to have a way with doctors. Especially the avuncular ones. (BAM! Word of the week: a-vun-cu-lar. Of or relating to an uncle. You're welcome.) Come to find out, the cute old lady nurse's husband is an orthodontist in Richmond and is BFF's with my oral surgeon who did my jaw surgery. They have dinner on the reg. And my doctor, Uncle Bow-tie, is a huge fan of my retired family doctor, Dr. Bridgeforth from itty-bitty Victoria. So yes, spoiler alert! I'm pretty much best friends with every doctor in the Greater Richmond area. And they can pretty much compare notes on me from the top of my head to the tips of my...cookah. In fact, I'd like to think that my OB-GYN, my fertility specialist, my 70-year-old retired PCP, my orthodontist, my oral surgeon, and my newly acquired general surgeon are all sitting around a table at Carrabba's tonight discussing yours truly. In fact, this could be a completely legit scenario, except they've all made BANK off me so they're probably doing Ruth's Chris instead.

 

Gah! At least with all this other stuff going on, I've had no time to think about lack of babies. In fact, this long weekend should be the start of month 3, post-ectopic, which means my system should be cleared out and ready to get back to work. And maybe, once I have my gallbladder removed, doctors will find a long-lost connection between miscarriages and gallstones and all my problems will be solved! Until then, enjoy the following picture. Until I have a kid and other than the 700 pictures of Rudy I share on Instagram when I'm bored, this is pretty much happening on a regular basis. Even in doctor's offices!