Cry for Me, Argentina
I feel badly. For you, the reader. For Andrew, because this journal really isn't something he would want to point to as a shining example of some of the 'jems' to be found on Diaryland. For myself, too, if I really want to be honest. I kind of began this journal in the middle of my life, sort of like when you're home ill for an extended period of time and take up watching soap operas. You don't know the characters, the issues, the underlying grudges, etc. You are expected to pay attention and develop this entire frame of reference. I only hope you'll tune in long enough to do that here.

Yes, if you hadn't figured it out before now, I'm feeling sorry for myself today. There are many reasons why I should give myself a mental slap and get on with life, but I'll deal with those later. I'd rather wallow.

I came to the realization yesterday afternoon that I have no friends. I have many acquaintances, but no real friends. The one I thought would be True Blue until the end of time turned out to be humouring me. HUMOURING me. I don't need pity, thank you very much.

I have tons of friends online, but only a few that I see in real life once each year. Not really very helpful when you need a shoulder to cry on, or a hug, or a lunch companion.

My weight. I know, I know, I'm responsible for what I put in my mouth and how long I sit on the couch watching movies and sitcoms. This past January, I actually got a gym membership, and attended Pilates classes. I have a sneaking suspicion that if you do Pilates when you're heavy, it only serves to push the fat around, like Play Dough or Silly Putty. (Get me, I'm Claymation!)

Work is the same. I think you have to be a certain personality type to do contract work for an extended period of time. As much as I want to search for full time employment, I have a few things holding me back until late summer. That doesn't stop me from scouring Workopolis every day, though. I plan to take action, really I do. (see gym issue above)

My surgery is getting steadily closer, and I am getting more and more anxious about it. I was diagnosed earlier this year with Obstructive Sleep Apnea, and the best remedy for someone my age is to have my tonsils out. Why I didn't have them out earlier is beyond me, since the specialist, Dr. Ferguson, looked down my throat and commented on the vastness of my little guys. The size of Michigan, she said. (Well, that might be exactly true, but you could tell from the look in her eyes that was what she was thinking.)

The surgery date is June 1, at which time Dr. S will hollow me out like a Hallowe'en pumpkin. Tonsils, palate, uvula, the works. He said that I should be off work for three weeks. I said one would be fine, and we settled on ten working days. The more I think about it, the more I think I was a dunce for not taking the time off when it was medically offered.

My cousin, who tried for ten long years to get preggers, finally achieved Baby eight months ago. Times two. The last time she made the trek to the City for an ultrasound, the doctor admitted her for bedrest. One morning during early rounds, Diane told the doctor that she had lost the sight in her left eye. It turned out that she had a leaking aneurism. She was immediately sedated and the girls were taken by c-section. They are preemies and are eating through tubes, but thanks to the doctor who gave Diane injections of a drug that matured their lungs, they are fine. Sadly, Diane has been told to wait three to four weeks by the neurologist before he will see her again about the leak in her head. I don't think I could walk around with a ticking time bomb in my head without it becoming all-consuming. Oh yeah, and she has two babies to look after. Oh yeah, and the doctor told her not to take stairs or LIFT anything. Bah.

And what the hell is with the weather? Sunday I was using the furnace and last night I had all the windows open on the front porch in a vain attempt to cool the house down. I Will. Not. turn on the air conditioning this early in the year. It's unnatural. I love my collection of sweaters, and I usually have more of a weaning off period before they go into storage. I spent a few minutes this morning gazing into my armoire at my summer clothes. (see weight pout above).

Okay, enough.

I'm going to sit here eating my Nutribar (Hazelnut), reading Bridget Jones's Diary and being grateful that I have my health and a working brain (?) that allows me to create this entry.

Thus endeth the wallowing.

Posted at 10:27 a.m.