Remember when I wrote that post about how I think I'm dying all the time when actually I probably just have a hangnail or, according to WebMD, am in the throes of a panic attack?
Well it turns out I am actually dying.
This news is particularly distressing coming on the heels of mah birfday, which, by the way, was A-Mazing. I didn't get yelled at at work like I did last year. I got lots of sweet messages and phone calls from people who love me in real life, had an amazing time with the husband and some of my best friends evah, and...there was you guys!!
You all - my bloggy friends and twats - seriously did not disappoint in the present department. I received comments, and poems and bacon and legwarmers oh my! Honestly, there is nothing else a girl could ask for.
Oh wait. Yes there is. There is something else a girl could want on her birfday. Not one, not two, but three giant piles of dog vomit on the living room floor.
Fortunately for this birfday girl, her puppies know the deepest desires of her heart so when she returned home from work, that's exactly what she found.
Needless to say I. Was. So. EXCITED!!! Cleaning up dog vomit? Right up there with winning the lottery. But just as I was about to get on my hands and knees with the cleaning supplies, the husband came flying into the room, pushed me out of the way and declared, "no! I want to do it!" I thought it was a little selfish since it was my birfday, but I could tell he would be absolutely devastated if he did not get to clean up the mucus-ey yellow piles, so I said (rather dejectedly), "okay, if it means that much to you, you can do it."
Seriously, I am THE BEST wife.
All of that has nothing to do with why I'm dying. I'm dying because I have pain in my left side. At first I thought it was just a pulled muscle because of all that stupid exercising I've been doing. Seriously, all my cells and muscles and whatever else it is that makes up a body must be thinking Armageddon has come. She wants us to do what? But we've NEVER moved that way before.
I can only imagine the chaos inside me as they all ran around gathering supplies and battening down the hatches, waiting for the end to come. It would make total sense that in the midst of that mess, a muscle would be pulled.
But then the pain felt...different, and kinda sharp and pangy, but not really, but kinda. So clearly? Dying.
I didn't even bother with WebMD on this one. They'd just tell me it was a panic attack anyway. I went straight to the people who know about medicine and science-y stuff to confirm my diagnosis. And by "went to them" I mean I didn't talk to anyone, I just assumed.
Because hello! There's a pain in my side. If that isn't a precursor of death, I don't know what is.
Also? If you've gone nearly three weeks eating nothing but leafy greens and fruit and occasionally chicken and fish and then one night, a night that everyone will tell you is a special occasion, decide to eat a giant five gallon tub of creamy cheesy potato leak and BACON soup, followed by a sausage rolled in fried dough, followed by a ginormous piece of greasy pizza, your body will f*ckin hate you.
And? If you try to get back on track the next day by eating bland chicken and fruit, your insides will ninja kick you in the stomach and you will vomit in a way that will put your dog to shame.
So now instead of just your normal run-of-the-mill dying, I'm dying harder.
Sigh. Sometimes I wish I wasn't such an overachiever.