My last two posts would have you believe I know what I want and have every aspect of my life in order. Yep, I'm one totally together chick. Today's post is sure to blow that image to bits.
I'm been having a ball here in Albany, but man, I miss that boyfriend of mine. I absolutely love being with him, plus one of the best things about living with someone again is that I no longer worry about dying alone. I don’t mean like 40 years from now; I mean like in the next week or two.
Let me explain. I'll start by making it clear that I'm not a hypochondriac. God knows I’m totally "all eyes on Linda," but trust me, I don't crave pity-based attention. I once spent three nights in the hospital after major abdominal surgery and refused visitors the whole time. Seriously, I told my family that whoever visited me against my wishes would be cut right out of the will. I simply don't need anyone seeing me without my lipstick and tiara.
No, I'm no hypochondriac, but I will admit to being an alarmist. A mild headache is not the remnants of a hangover, but an undiscovered brain tumor. A bad cold? Walking pneumonia. I once marched myself to Urgent Care and demanded that the physician on duty investigate the possibility that my stiff neck was a severe case of meningitis. He rolled his eyes and murmured something under his breath about hating the goddamn Internet.
I haven’t had one of those alarmist attacks in quite a while now. I remember the last time vividly--I had just finished super-cleaning my apartment, which involved moving heavy furniture, and I noticed I started to feel a little dizzy. A stroke, I concluded, and began a panicky mental scenario that went something like this:
What if I pass out and no one finds me for days? It's a good thing my apartment's clean. Should I refresh my makeup so when they find me I look halfway decent? Or maybe change into some "single girl" underwear in case the attending physician at the ER is cute? Should I turn on the TV so it looks like I was doing something other than just posing here waiting for certain death?
Am I hyperventilating? I should call somebody. I gotta save my cell minutes, though. It's 8:57. Can I wait three minutes? I should get a land line. OMG, just today someone at work was telling me that 911 can't find you from your cell phone. It’s a sign—just like I cleaned tonight so they would find me in tidy surroundings. Even when I was cleaning, I was thinking, why am I doing this? I’m not having company or anything. Now I know— I’m gonna die. Shit! Had I wish I hadn't paid 700 bucks for that stupid crown on my back molar.
You get the picture. Crazy, huh? And I have the nerve to tell people how to run their lives...