My clock is ticking.
Sadly, it's not even my biological clock. It's my other ticker - my heart.
I went to the eye doctor today, and he said he could tell by looking at my eyeballs my cholesterol is probably high and I need to get it checked.
It's really freaky he can tell that from looking at my eyeballs. What else does he know about me now?
Serves me right. That's what I get for blogging about my love of cake. Now I get to go get my cholesterol checked.
Plus, I had an awful dream this week. I had a dream Nate and I were at Wal-Mart checking out. I had apparently been exercising and was dressed in my work-out gear. The checker totalled up my purchases and said "that'll be $x.xx with your senior citizen's discount." I left the store, horrified about being mistaken as a senior citizen and feeling as though I must look hideous.
The cholesterol and the horrid dream is a nice climax of just feeling unattractive in general over the past few weeks. I hate wearing my glasses. I have to exercise for an hour every day just to maintain the number I don't even like on the scale. I eat all this healthy food and I don't even eat bacon or have real soda and I may be a ticking time bomb anyway. A college student called me Mrs. (insert Pastor's last name here) the other day. I feel like I'm getting old and falling apart. Except, of course, for the fact that I'm never going to get my skin to clear up.
I've been on the quest for perfect skin for a while now. OK, 21 years.
Stuff has been on an insane clearance at the mall. 80% off. With the Pastor's job at the University, we attend any formal event we can, because they are fun and I like to play dress up. Last week, I bought three formal dresses on clearance. We have a Valentine's Ball coming up in a couple of weeks, and we'll go to the Prom in the Spring so I'm set for dresses (as long as I don't gain any weight or get invited to too many weddings that serve cake). And, as an added bonus, if I do suffer a heart attack and die soon, at least there will be something pretty and sparkly to bury me in.
All this to say I'm 35 years old, I apparently need to be slightly more concerned about stroking out, I can't even worry about the fact that all my eggs are dying, yet I still have acne and shop for prom dresses.
That's just sad, but at least I'm not gray.