Not a classy title for a post, but it is sort of a sigh because I can nor perhaps attribute for being tired to a reason other than laziness. You go to the doctor with “this pain in my right side” and he pokes and feels and sends you for a urine sample. Yeah!!
Well, not yeah; I had not drunk anything and it took several cups of water to . . . oh, you know . . . pee. (Urinate if my father were here looking over my shoulder and commenting on what a lady should say.) I thought after a while I was going to be able to make a homestead claim on the lab waiting room.
When I was five, my mother said I came home from the doctor with pills in my hand and announced, “I’ve got the chickenpox.” Yesterday, I came in with my Cipro in my hand, but didn’t announce anything. It didn’t seem as dramatic as the pox. Actually, I hope it is no where near that; when I had the chickenpox, I was completely covered with pox spots, between my fingers, my lips, everywhere – and it was the Christmas season too.