You know, it was very recently--a mere post ago--that I mentioned what a nice life I lead. And mostly, I do.
Except I planned to spend quite a bit of time this month working out at the gym, or going on long, vigorous walks, working up a light sweat in a desperate attempt to shed fat cells and transform what's left from a bulging sack of Crisco to a lightly muscled, firm, rubbery bagel of fleshly delights.
Unfortunately, I've developed cancer of the foot. Or something like it. I'd go to the doctor and check it out, except I hate doctors, and anyway, what's the internet for, if not to discover all kinds of information about medical conditions that then become your completely paranoid worst nightmare?
I don't even want to talk about it. I hate feet. I know I'm alone in this, or have been for the last decade, where the entire world has fallen down and worshiped French pedicures and strappy sandals (which by the way, is redundancy in action: I mean, show me a sandal without straps and I will show you a shoe sole) and reflexology and Manolo's shoe blog, but I don't care. I hate feet, and I don't want to talk about them.
So something's wrong with my foot, and I can't work out the way I planned. And I'm sitting here imagining myself hauling my enormous carcase through the swimming pool, lap after lap, until I build the upper body of a wheelchair athlete on steroids.
And I realized, hey, I'm feeling whiny.
Better blog about it.
Before I crush my laptop keyboard with my Popeye-like forearms.
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