Eighty eight weeks out from surgery, and here are the numbers I care about:
- Weight: 237
So I’ve been at 237 for a little over a month now. The up or down never varies more than .1 or .4 so I guess…I’m killing it? Yeah, no. But as I’ve said a few times now, I’m honestly just trying to get through the rest of the pandemic. Soon as the gym opens, my mornings are going to change and I honestly can’t wait. Few different health updates this morning:
I’m getting my second vaccine shot this morning (I’m writing this on Thursday because yesterday was busy as hell with grading and I honestly forgot), so that’s exciting. Less excited about the likelihood of having a low-grade flu tomorrow, which is what happened to Annette, but it’s obviously a bargain. When I wake up the day after the flu, I’m really hoping I have super powers.
Last week I was talking with my therapist and I was telling her about an incident the day before where I acted like a dick to an elderly couple in the grocery store. That story by the way, is as follows:
Me: Excuse me, which line are you in?
Old Lady: Whichever is fastest.
Me: That’s not how lines work, which line do you want to be in?
Old Lady: Whichever is fastest.
Me: Here, let me show you what I mean. *moves shopping cart in front of her and cuts ahead of her in line* See? I chose a line. Now you can either stand behind me in this line or stand next to me in that one. Simple!
Old Lady: *blank stare*
Old Man: *hate daggers flying out of his eyes*
So I was happy that I didn’t say anything terrible to them (I know this is a low bar, but trust me, it’s happened in the past, and even though I fuck up and act like a dick more often than I’d care to admit, I’m really, really trying not to be a verbally abusive dick, which is something I’m unfortunately skilled at), but I still felt like a dick for cutting ahead of them in line. For the record: PICK A FUCKING LINE. But it’s not my job to discipline and publicly shame people into correct adult behavior. Anyway, after I cut ahead of them, I was in zero tolerance mode, and when I’m in zero tolerance mode, I’m one baby step away from full-on rage. Dropping my keys, a snarky remark, a shitty driver…fuck, even a slow moving drive-thru line, and my blood pressure shoots up and I’m cursing humanity (hopefully) under my breath.
I’M A HOOT.
So my therapist made a successful sales pitch (I’m leaving out a LOT here, out of respect to my family) to start taking medication, or at least consider it. My evaluation appointment is in early April. Speaking of which, filling out the medical paperwork for that was pretty terrible. I don’t know if it’s the language on the forms or if it’s just that the negative stigma of mental health in our country is so terrible, but filling out that paperwork genuinely made me feel broken. And a little bit ashamed. I put it out of my head, but it wasn’t a pleasant experience.
Three things I’m grateful for:
- Annette. I married the best person and I’m legit proud to say I’ve never taken her for granted (I originally wrote this as the third thing on the list but I moved it to the top because I didn’t want her to come at me with, “I’m glad I’m almost as important as your fucking knee popping.”).
- Good healthcare. I assume, after the above, this needs no elaboration.
- When I stretch my right leg, slowly extending it, and the knee finally pops. My god that is some great shit right there.
I’m good this week. I’m still keeping my news intake to a minimum because there’s still way too much fuckery in the world, but I’m honestly good, which is a nice thing to be able to report. Fingers crossed for super powers!
Here, have a graphic: