I am stuck in a waiting room right now, so I'm blogging.
I fell down the stairs last week (more on this later) and am now in for my second set of X-rays. The first time I had them done, my technician was a cute scruffy Irish guy with an accent. Naturally, I did not complain about anything and was very well-behaved. This time, my technician was small and nerdly and did NOT have an Irish brogue. He tried to get me to take off my shirt and bra, which was overkill because it's my elbow we're looking at, and I told him that the cute Irish guy didn't make me do that, so why should he? Thinking back, I'm hoping I didn't actually say 'cute Irish guy' out loud. Anyway, instead I just whisked off my underwire bra while his back was turned and kept my shirt on. You know, in case the wire magnetized to the machine or whatever. Wait...that's an MRI. Oh, well; now I'm sitting here braless because there was no discrete way to get the bra back on.
I also have a head cold. It's day 5, and the nose-running has increased--one can only hope this is because my body is pushing the germs out faster than ever. I have surrendered to the virus and am unabashedly mouth breathing. Everyone in the waiting room keeps staring at me when I blow my nose. I don't get it, people. You're in a doctor's office. Surely you knew there'd be sick people here.
Between my face melting and my elbow aching, and my belly rumbilng (because I forgot to grab breakfast and I'm afraid to leave in case the doctor calls me), I'm a ball of grumpy snotty achy mess. So if you see me today, pat me on the back. Or feed me.