There’s no end to the list of things I’d rather do than clean my house. I am so desperate to avoid doing it that I will even dust off ye olde blog and pretend I have something worth writing about. What can I tell you? I went to the doctor this morning for my annual physical. I got my lowest scores ever on the depression/anxiety scales, but that’s mainly because they don’t give any points for “I don’t want to die, really, but man, am I bored.” But anyway, congratulations to me. I also got a Pap smear, which I’m sure you were dying to know, but don’t worry, the new guidelines say you won’t have to hear about it again for another three years. I narrowly avoided a lecture on the importance of breast self-exams, and the doctor gave me some advice on staying continent in my golden years. All in all, a resounding success.

I had to get some blood drawn, so I went downstairs to the lab, and there was this lady in the chair across from me who was giving her birth date to the phlebotomist, and I happened to overhear that she was born in 1988. And I said to myself, “Hm. She definitely does not look like a teenager.” And then I said to myself, “Well, of course not. There are grown-ass men and women walking around out there who were born in the ’90s, for gosh sake.” And then I said to myself, “YOUR OWN DAUGHTER WAS BORN IN THE NINETIES!” Imagine the camera slowly zooming in on me as this realization hits. Would it be more or less effective with music? I will leave that to your judgment. Suffice it to say, I was rattled. Sure, my son has been calling me “Grandma” for the last couple years, but I didn’t realize it was LITERALLY POSSIBLE. This was not unlike that moment I was thinking to myself, “That Marcus Mariota sure is handsome,” immediately followed by “AND YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE YOUR SON. STOP! REVERSE COURSE NOW!”

::Shudder::

So then I went to the grocery store and managed to decide what to make for dinner tonight, sort of. WAIT, I forgot to tell you that also at the doctor, I found out that I am officially one pound over the weight I promised myself would be the absolute most I would ever allow myself to weigh while not pregnant. I am not pregnant and do not plan ever to be so again; therefore, this must mean that I am supposed to lose weight now. Unfortunately, I don’t feel like it. It’s a problem! So much a problem that I completely forgot to mention it when I was describing the resounding success that was my annual physical. So scratch that “resounding success” part and write in “mostly a success but partially a crashing failure because there is no way I’m going to lose ten pounds any time soon.”

Except that I might lose ten pounds when I have my jaw surgery in June. I did schedule my jaw surgery. It is officially happening. Maybe afterward I can finally get my braces off, and won’t that be lovely. I had this little conversation with the doctor. Doctor: “Most people do lose weight when they have braces because it’s such a pain in the neck to eat.” Me: “Not enough of one.” Unfortunately! But when I have nothing but protein smoothies to sustain me, I imagine I will finally lose the will to load up on calories. The goal, in the meantime, is to avoid gaining ten more pounds between now and June. While I was at the grocery store, I was hungry because I’d been fasting for the labs, and I still had another stop to make before going home, so I got a slice of $2 pizza and a diet Shasta from the vending machine. (The pizza was not from the vending machine but from a legit fresh-pizza-seller.) Pizza and diet cola–Breakfast of Champions and Other People Who Will Never Lose Ten Pounds without Having Their Jaws Wired Shut.

Then I went to Target to pick up a prescription, and I figured as long as I was there, why not drop another $75-100 on toilet paper, Band-Aids, and underwear? There was some other stuff in there too, but I forget what. Oh, I bought a new sports bra for Princess Zurg, who has been complaining that her medium-support model is not up to the rigorous bouncing that her Taekwondo class involves. So I selected a high-support sports bra, something I have never required for myself despite years of engaging in highly bouncy activities such as tap dancing and clogging, which is just as well since, I noticed, they only sell them in C, D, and DD sizes. I can only hope this one is up to the job.

While I was at it, I bought more underwear for my teenage son, and I was reminded how terribly uncomfortable it is to look for the right brand and size when you’re surrounded by walls of crotch shots. Compounding the problem is the fact that Mister Bubby and Elvis wear the same size in everything, so there needs to be a way of telling their underpants apart. For years I got MB white and Elvis colors/patterns, but then MB got bored of white underpants (I guess) or they don’t sell the style he likes in white, so I have to get him colorful underwear that isn’t the same as Elvis’s colorful underwear, but it can’t be too colorful or he’ll feel like an idiot. He won’t look like an idiot because no one will see his underwear–except I guess maybe some boys in the locker room if he has P.E., except do boys ever notice other boys’ underwear? If they did, would they admit it? Maybe, if it were really colorful and they claim they couldn’t help themselves.

Anyway, I was trying to find some sedate navy, perhaps a green, but all they had were black/grey or a “fashion pack” (!) (who knew?) that included purple, red, and camouflage. Seriously, camouflage? Is that ever going to stop being a thing? And that’s when I was thinking I’d had enough of the wall-o’-groins for one day, and I also thought to myself, “Are there any men who actually buy their own underwear, and if so, do they ever think, ‘All right, camo!’ These will be really fashionable!'”

I’m not saying camouflage underwear isn’t fashionable. I just wonder what men think about it. Probably nothing. They probably don’t even notice what’s on their underwear, unless it’s too colorful. So why camouflage? Who decided that was a good pattern for men’s underwear?

I don’t know. What else can I tell you? I got an e-mail from Marco Rubio, wanting to know if he could count on me. That was the subject line. “Can I count on you, Mad?” And I was like, dude, I don’t know how I’m going to feel about you a month from now, let alone November 2016. But it turned out he just wanted money. Pft. No, you can’t count on me. Please. Except that considering who else is running so far, maybe I should consider letting him think he can count on me. I like to encourage people who aren’t Rand Paul, no offense to him.

But it’s really too early for me to consider committing to anyone, even on a…what’s the word…a trial basis. I don’t even want to think about the next presidential election. It seems like we just had one. And I just don’t care that much anymore. Wake me up when they finally take my Social Security away.

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