I have a complex. . .

I've missed this.  A lot.  I was telling some family yesterday that I wanted to get back into blogging because seriously, my heart is here.  Going six months without blogging might not aide in proving my point but what can you do when you have a baby.  I don't even do my hair.

I'm pretty sure that there is only one male that reads my blog (hey David) so I feel like the start of this blog may only be rough for him.  Stay with me though, my point gets much more vast and much less uncomfortable as my ranting continues.

I have a complex.  I think it may be one that a lot of people silently suffer from but since I find it not only disturbing but mildly humorous, I think this is an appropriate venue to talk about it.

I called my doctor today (how many stories start this way and you immediately want to check out?) to schedule an appointment - you know, the kind that generally only happens once every twelve months.  (I could say this same sentence 15 years ago and everyone would automatically assume I was talking about my physical I would always get before basketball camp.  If it makes you feel more comfortable, we can stick to that.).  Anyway, as I called today, June 4th, I was notified by the appointments desk that my doctor's next available appointment is at the end of July.  JULY.  Three things struck me at this very moment: first, I need to stop doing such an amazing job of telling everyone how great my doctor is because they are making it so my yearly becomes a year and a halfly.  Second, I missed my calling.  Apparently there is a pretty major market for doctor's that can do. .  ahem. . . physicals.  I think I should have stuck out biology and went the way of job security.

The final thought that went through my head (and this is where the complex comes in) was (audibly): "Alright.  That will give me another two months to lose more of the baby weight.  She'll be proud."  Um, what?  Did I just project my need for acceptance onto my doctor?  Really?  Yes, yes I did.

You see, I have this issue that anytime I go and get a professional service done, I, in the back of my warped head, am hoping that said professional will turn to me and say "I am not needed here.  You are free to go."  Or, at the very least, nod in amazement because they have never seen such a specimen and they feel overly privileged to be performing such a service.  I'll give you a couple of examples of this:

The Pedicure
Do I think I have the most fabulous feet in the world, no.  Do I like to think that I offer some sort of relief to my pedicuring vixen that my feet are not the grossest thing they have ever seen?  Yes.  The point of a pedicure: to relax, get your feet treated and PAY to walk out with perfectly manicured toes.  So naturally, it only makes sense that I remove my chipped nail polish and pumice my feet for a week before I go in for said treatment.  I don't want them to work too hard (or talk about me when I leave, or while I'm right there, either way).

The Dentist
I have straight teeth and I brush. . . but never as hard or as long as I do the day I go to the dentist.  Most of the time I even rinse and floss before I go so that when he asks, I can say "Sure do."  Never mind that one day of rinsing will not fool a seasoned professional (or a third year student for that matter).  The point is that in my head, it totally fools him and every dental tech that enters the room.  I sit in that chair ready for him to say "I have never seen such a fine smile," and then proudly sends me on my way.  Usually, reality sets in and for one reason or another, I can't feel the right side of my face for the next few hours.  BUT I RINSED!?!?!

The Hairdresser
Did I just wash and straighten my hair before I got here?  Noooo.  "What, oh my gosh no.  Seriously, I haven't washed it in a couple of days and it looks so dirty right now."  False.  PS: I pulled out the couple of gray hairs in the front too so that you can wonder how my color holds so well.  Must be that expensive shampoo that I use every day.  Must be that.

You get my point?  So back to the doc.  During my pregnancy, my doctor was amazing at reminding me to eat healthy and try to not gain too much weight.  (Pregnant translation: eat all the chocolate cake you are craving.  Who is going to say anything?)  So, I did what any patient would do and took her advice: I ate more vegetables (with my hamburger) and drank skim milk (after that chocolate cookie).  Ok, I wasn't horrible but I could have been better.

One week, Trev went to an appointment with me and over the previous two weeks, I had gained like five pounds or something that sounded WAY more astronomical to the doctor than it did to me apparently.  So, she started quizzing me about what I was eating.

"What did you have for breakfast?"
"Some eggs. . . on a piece of toast."
"Hmm. . . ok.  Maybe just egg whites next time?  Lunch?"
"Some carrots and a turkey sandwich."
"Hmm. . . what kind of bread?"
(Here was my opening)
"White. . . I probably should have done wheat (like THAT made five pounds of difference)."
"Yeah, let's try that."

When she left to get some test results, my cute husband turned and smiled at me. . . and I buckled.  "Ok, I know I didn't eat toast and eggs for breakfast but if I had said that I ate a breakfast burrito from Burger Stop, she would have killed me!!"

In my head, I got away with it.  Reality says that my doctor walked straight into the hall and said "Eggs and toast my. . ."

Man is she going to be proud of me in two months. . .when I start eating healthy the Saturday before.