I recently celebrated my 32nd birthday. Or more to the point triggered my annual downward spiral of introspection and self flagellation.
I should exercise more, eat less cheese, have a career plan, hem the one curtain that doesn’t have a hem and is done up with safety pins, get light fittings, practice bellydancing with my zills on and hang what the neighbours think, save money, blog more often … trust me, that is the tip of a very murky iceberg.
It didn’t help matters when I went to the doctors this week with tonsillitis when my GP, for her own sadistic pleasure, went into my family history. Quote unquote “Thirty two is the right age to change your life style to reduce your risk of breast cancer, heart attack, diabetes … “ there were some other diseases in there too but I tuned out with a glazed look of horror. “And make sure you make an appointment for a pap smear soon”
Happy birthday Jen.
My first present to myself is finding a new doctor. One who doesn’t seem to get off on my family’s medical history and have fake sympathy about my brother. If you want to know about Cohen syndrome, Google it woman, don’t ask me 20 questions. Furnish me with the appropriate drugs and let me go be snotty and gross in the privacy of my own home. I have downloaded a whole bunch of Doctor Who and I prefer David Tennant’s bedside manner to yours any day. I need a GP that isn’t emaciated and self righteous, but certainly someone slightly more inspirational than dad’s (previous) cardiologist who smoked constantly and ate a pie for lunch every day.
Present number two: it’s time to stem the tide of self doubt and ease up a little. I’m doin’ just fine and dandy. Should save up the stress for big deals in life. I have a good job, great friends, a loving partner and weird and wonderful family. And I’m not too bad either. Breathe, and have the odd sneaky piece of camembert, it won’t kill me.