At a recent doctor appointment, Bob went with me and accompanied me into the actual appointment. The tech asked, “Who’s this you’re bringing with you?”
I told her he was my husband.
She smiled and said something to the effect of, “Oh okay! He just looks so young. I had to make sure he wasn’t your son. I don’t think you want your son in on this appointment.”
Record scratch.
‘Scuse me?
My son?
I know Bob looks younger than he is, but Lady, HOW OLD DO YOU THINK I AM?
I really have no idea how old people actually think I am when they don’t know my actual age. I’ve been told countless times that I don’t look as old as I am, but most of the time I think people are feeding me a line.
In possibly related topics…
When I go to a website that requires you to enter your birth date to prove you’re old enough to be there, I get irrationally irritated by it. I just want to type in, I’M THIRTY-THREE YEARS OLD FOR FUCKSSAKE I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS SHIT JUST LET ME IN THE DAMN SITE ALREADY.
I might be overreacting.
Maybe.
It would probably take less time to just enter in my birth date.
BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.
In other news…
Bob has a chest cold. My body feels like it’s considering catching it, but it can’t quite make up its mind. My lungs have been more wheezy than usual. And my sinuses are revolting (also more so than usual) but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m getting sick, or because the Flonase I’ve been using for the past two months is just wreaking havoc and no longer doing an adequate job at keeping things clear because it is too busy giving me an excess of blood and crud to expel on a daily basis.
You’re welcome for that visual image, by the way.
Every time I take pictures of things in my house that show off the flat, white walls, it really drives home the point that we NEED TO PAINT THE WALLS because Jeezy Creezy I hate these flat, white walls.
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Absolutely Still Better Than Ezra |