I vaguely remember through some haze of training that we may have insurance available to us as low-totem-polers. This would be a good thing to aquire if only so I can go to a doctor and feel like a Completely Horrible Human Being For Having Shown Up. Over the course of my life I seem to have been paired with several guilt-based doctors. You know, the ones who ask the personal questions with just the right amount of I'm Not Judging You But I Really Am in their voice, and while I know I'm supposed to be truthful and I know patient confidentiality is a big thing and I know the doctor doesn't really know me as a person, I completely shy away from answering for fear they're going to make that tchtchtch noise with their tongue and teeth and then say something like "Well we'll just have to try not to keep doing that, okay?" It's one thing to enjoy delicious potato chips but another thing entirely to admit it to a trained professional who, as can be judged from the righteous tone of his voice, has not so much as even looked at a bag of Cape Cod Golden Russets and who would never ever ever deign to consider the Pringles, not even if they're on sale. Though I do suspect my problem here isn't with potato chips, but it's a good enough funny example to write about.
I don't need a guilt-based doctor. I just need a diagnosis, treatment and advice on how to keep whatever it is from happening again. Honestly, the last time I saw a doctor was the last time I had health insurance, but I might scare some of the more fragile readers and closet hypochondriacs if I mentioned exactly how long ago that was. I almost had a doctor when I worked at Up Ro Mise, but I got as far as the Choosing A Primary Care Provider game ("I have absolutely no idea who any of these doctors are. Should I just pick one at random or the first one who'll take me?" "I suggest the latter, sir.") before they laid us all off and rendered my choice, and appointment, moot. What keeps me going is a careful blend of stoic Yankee hardiness, the ability to tune out annoying pain with a minimal amount of teeth-gritting, and the subborn belief that with the right medicine, anything will clear up in a matter of time and won't you be a better person for it. But even we know when we're licked, and right now I just want an official name for this stupid disorder so I can yammer on incessantly about it in my LiveJournal and work it into casual conversation and stuff, as it will propel me into the ranks of those who have it, giving me a keen perspective on life which can be used to qualify every statement I make. Just like 52-Year-Old Cynthia, who started every sentence with a variation on "As a 52-year-old woman..."
Actually what I want right now is a good night's sleep but with this constant bathroom-running that's booked me solid into 2006, I won't be getting it any time soon. At least Martha has taken it upon herself to keep me company in the bathroom, though I think she's more interested in potential mice who seem to be playing in the bathroom closet from time to time. Also, having a cat play the "I Love You Soooo Much I'ma Brush Around Your Legs" game when you're on the john really induces ooginess of hitherto unknown levels. Go 'way, cat. I don't bug you like this when you're in your litterbox.
Ok. Back to bed. I'm out of anti-gas tablets so I need a nap to make it to CVS soon.