I have the very bad habit of frequently feeling sorry for myself, but honestly, this has been a rotten week. My doctor wants to put me on cholesterol medication because my levels are stratospheric. And I'm thinking, "Why should I care if I die of a heart attack at 50? If being alone when I'm young is miserable, being old and alone will be utterly wretched."
Of course, high cholesterol also correlates with dementia and stroke, not just heart attack. Great. If I lost 30 pounds my levels would plummet, but I can't exercise because the damn trainer ruined my knees.
I got another bill related to the hit-and-run, which MVAIC was supposed to take care of and didn't. Another flurry of calls to make, hoops to jump through.
To top it all off, as I sat on the subway wondering why more bad things happen to me than to other people, I noticed that my favorite watch had fallen off my wrist somewhere between the B and F trains. Irony, or I guess stainless-steelery.
I suppose it's replaceable, but I'm just so wretched right now. I'm trying to hold it together because I'm a professional, so when my boss came into my office to discuss my expanded post-promotions responsibilities, I played calm and alert. But I didn't care. It didn't make me happy. Even though I think I'll really enjoy what I'll be doing.
Right now, nothing could make me happy. Not anticipating the cruise, not optimism about my future, not shopping for a replacement watch. The present is just an endless steaming pile of crap, and every time I think I've climbed free, even more pours right back on me. The Garden of Emuna says that if something bad happens to you, it's a sign to examine your life and see where you're lacking. Doesn't say what to do if everything bad happens to you, all the time.
My doctor told me that next year I'll have to start going for mammograms. I don't think I'll bother. I don't even think I'll go on cholesterol medication. I take enough pills as it is, and I don't want to live forever.
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