Ugh. It’s like my therapist wants me to feel…BETTER.

Tonight I told my therapist I’m going to a doctor for a yearly checkup. She said, “Suppose the doctor says your bloodwork is fine, and your only prescription is more exercise — that a consistent workout regimen would definitely make everything better. Would that motivate you to make it a more regular habit instead of just once in a while?” And I told her no. I wouldn’t take a “real” doctor’s order any more seriously than my therapist’s. I know hippies will sing the praises of exercise until the goddamn grass-fed, rainbow-raised cows come home. But I’m waiting for the day they say it’s all horseshit, like they just did with flossing. Dentists have been up our asses with floss for, what, 50 years? Then suddenly they’re all, “NOPE, it’s just minty string.” (I don’t necessarily believe that, I’m just being petulant.)

But I get it: “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t.”

Fine, I’ll add more exercise. Fine. FINE.

“Sometimes you have to show a little skin…”

My earlier post reminded me that I should finally see a dermatologist, just for a generalized old-lady exam to see if any of my adorable freckles are going to kill me later.

I’m on the website looking at the doctors’ photos and qualifications, and a few of them are men. One is a hot man.

Sorry, no, much as I’d love to take my clothes off in front of you, it’s not gonna be when I’m speckled with skin allergies and potentially cancerous freckles.

Tell ya what — let one of the other doctors in your practice fix those things, and also hook me up with some Botox, and THEN I can strut around your office naked, just for fun. Cool? Cool.

First, do no harm. But DO have Xanax and burritos. 

Emailing a friend: “‘Xanax and burritos’ should be the beginning of every prescription. It should be pre-printed on the prescription pad with the doctor’s name and contact info.”