"You worry, you think - it's a vicious cycle." -Victor/Victoria
As my appointment with a real doctor gets closer (as opposed to the Doc-In-The-Box variety, which could well have been imaginary - I was hanging with both the Care and the Swear Bears that day, remember?) I find my stomach unexpectedly performing gymnastics routine, in spite of the fact that the Olympics were last winter. Dude!
I'm always afraid of going to the doctor's office. I'm paranoid that somehow they can look at me and see every bad thing I've ever done; at least the ones printed on my face, the rest are tattooed elsewhere, like on my ass, or in my lungs, and they know.
(I'm sorry, did I not mention I was completely insane today? My bad - yeah, uh, heads up, the girl is kind of batshit today, m'kay?)
I tell myself it's all going to be fine, even if it isn't fine. Bea tells me the same thing, when I'm on the phone with her, telling her how my stomach did a perfect split in it's routine the other day.
Bea: It's going to be fine, stop worrying.
Me: I know it's going to be fine, you don't have to reassure me that it's going to be fine. You don't have to say anything, you know.
Bea: Jesus! So, what am I supposed to say? Nothing? Just let the silence hang and fester?
Me: Yeah, something like that. Or tell me a joke - something!
She's so patient with my batsa crap, but then it is a two-way street, isn't it Bea?
(Damn, I forgot she was on hiatus from the blogosphere. I'm just in here, talking to myself. Neat. Does this post make my ass look nuts? And please, don't be honest!)