Tuesday, Jan. 04, 2005
Dear Diary:

Last night I had to banish the spousal unit to the fold out sofa bed in my office because every time he stirred in our bed my swollen, tender joints screamed in protest.

Even with the bed to myself, sleep would not come. For hours and hours as I watched the night sky above me through the skylight over my head I had one thought:

I want my pony.

Seriously.

I want my pony.

Here's the deal. For the last three years I have played by the health rules. I cleaned up what I eat big time, going from the train wreck of highly processed foods liberally mixed with heavy hits of junk food to a diet high in complex carbs and lean protein. I gradually eased all the white stuff—white bread, white potatoes, white flour, white sugar out the door and replaced them with healthier choices.

Portion control? You want portion control? I did that, too, and over three years shed more than 50 pounds going from obese to perfectly fine. This wasn't some freakish fad diet. This was slowly changing my life for keeps.

Eight to ten glasses of water? Oh yes, I make sure to do that.

High potency multi-vitamin? Check.

Omega 3 supplement? Check.

At least three 20 minute bouts of high intensity cardio a week? Absolutely. I aim for at least five days of cardio a week and probably come closer to 40 minutes a session.

Weight lifting to build bone density and muscles? Check.

Smoking? Never have.

And my payback for putting all this effort into my health is … (can I have a drum roll please?)

Well, let's see … last year I had Bell's Palsy, one of those weird inexplicable immune system diseases no one can figure out. Fine.

Last fall I had a big honking hunk of skin cancer removed from my nose and while I know technically that's me paying for the past sin of not wearing sunscreen and/or avoiding the sun, still, there I was sick again.

And now here I am after some truly terrifying chest pain with this weird viral disease that has made me aware of every joint in my freakin' body because they're all swollen and they all hurt, and as an extra bonus I have this ever so tasteful rash on my arms and legs that kind of burns …

WHERE IS MY GOD DAMNED PONY? SERIOUSLY. THAT GOOD HEALTH ALL THE EXPERTS PROMISED ME IF I GRABBED MY LIFE BY THE BACK OF ITS NECK AND GAVE IT A GOOD SHAKE? WHERE THE HELL IS *THAT*?

I am so weary of this. I'm exhausted from lack of sleep, worn down by the small stream of pain that is running through all my swollen joints, by the bits of skin that burn slightly. I feel so much rage over this. My rational mind knows that this is nothing, it's a temporary and not a chronic illness, and I should be grateful for that. I just have to keep treating the symptoms and wait for my body to give the virus the smackdown it so richly deserves.

But my rational mind has been kicked off to the corner. My inner six-year-old has taken over the room, has the table set with the plastic tea set and is holding a rollicking pity party.

And she's still on the look out for that stupid pony.

--Marn

P.S.—I read and cherish each and every one of your comments, but kids, my fingers and wrists hurt too much to type for long periods. I can't reply to any of you right now.

Mileage on the Marnometer: 0 miles. You have no idea how it pains me to write that

Goal for 2004: 1,250 miles - 2000 kilometers


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