Litany of Complaints: Body Version

Bewilderingly, my optometrist changed my contact lens prescription without my knowledge and knocked the prescription in my left lens down by 100, and I literally cannot see anything with that left lens in. Everything is blurry in my left eye. So I have to use my right lenses in my left eye now until I get them to fix their error, which I don’t trust that they are going to do without a big long argument.

On top of that, my glasses broke and are un-repairable, so I am wearing an old pair of glasses with an old prescription that are on their last legs. According to said optometrist, my hardware benefit doesn’t kick in again until March of next year so I either have to pay out of pocket for a new pair or put up with this old pair for another six months.

I’ve been sporting a sassy, asymmetrical “signature” pixie cut for the past year and half, which I am trying to decide whether or not to grow out. In the meantime, my hair is a disaster. It’s at a weird, in-between, bushy stage and I am using bobby pins to keep the bangs off my forehead because it’s driving me nuts to have a long fringe hang down over my already strained eyes.

I’m a stressy sleeper and I grind my teeth and wrinkle my brow in my sleep a lot and my jaw hurts and my forehead has crow’s feet and I want Botox and fillers. I use to think it was vain of women to want that, but now I totally understand.

I’m feeling discouraged about ever getting a pull-up. I can jump and hold myself up on the bar for a record total of eight seconds, but when I try to pull my body from up from the bottom of the bar, I can barely get two inches. Achieving a pull-up seems light-years away at this point.

The last time I got a massage, the therapist said there was something wrong with my ankles. I didn’t believe him at the time, but yesterday after deadlifting my right calf started spasming and I could feel that the tendon my ankle was all tight and messed up and now I’m paranoid that I have an ankle disorder.

I have a birthday this week and while I’m not in a full-blown crisis about like I was over my 50^th, it’s making me cranky. I don’t feel my age, whatever that means, and I have a weird cognitive dissonance about it. I hate how loaded age is for women. At least I’ve been promised sushi and flowers by Mr. Typist, which is all I really want.

I can’t find a sports bra that fits. They are either too thin and flimsy, or too thick and hot, and none of them fit around my rib cage right. I’ve been wearing my regular bra to the gym, but I want a decent, well-fitting sports bra and it irks me that I can’t find one.

Because of the afore-mentioned teeth-grinding, I’m supposed to be using a special, enamel-building toothpaste, but I can’t bring myself to use it very often because it’s very chemically and unpleasant-tasting. I wonder if I am going to have any enamel left in a few years.

There’s more—much, much more--but that’s enough for one day. Enjoy this video about those bodily freaks of the sky, hummingbirds. Warning: Crude sex jokes about tongues abound.

 

--Kristen McHenry