Next, you're going to tell me I should also stop ingesting mass quantities of NutraSweet...oh wait, you already have

Today, I pose to you a conundrum...

Question number 1: Do I ever do any of the above?

Question number 2: Would you please stop laughing? This is serious.

Question number 3: If you are reading this and you are my husband, mother, or doctor...why haven't you let me know of these recommendations? I mean really, you should have told me of this sooner.

(Wow...I can ACTUALLY hear Mom screaming in frustration all the way from Tucson...)

Yep, I'm sick. I caught a motherfucking cold on my motherfucking birthday and I'm PISSED OFF. We have plans to go out of town this weekend and surprise, surprise. I. GET. SICK.

I know a cold isn't the end of the world. I know I'll eventually feel better. But the point is this...

Something fun planned? I'll be in bed sneezing, thank you.

Long awaited, much anticipated vacation? You'll need to take me to the nearest hospital when we get there, because I'll end up with shingles on the first day.

Important wedding/birthday party/Bar Mitzvah/concert you've had tickets to for about six months to attend? Well get out the wheelchair, 'cause I broke my leg the night before.

THESE ARE ALL TRUE STORIES.

My step-Dad used to take it personally when every year, without fail, I would be injured, ill or incapacitated in some manner on his birthday. When I was a freshman in college, I once again had to beg off that year's celebration because I was in the hospital for six weeks...because I GOT HIT IN THE EYE WITH A TENNIS BALL...because TWO GUYS DECIDED TO PLAY TENNIS IN THE DORM HALLWAY AND I FORGOT TO DUCK. I mean honestly, I should have been better prepared for such a thing.

Step-Dad finally realized it wasn't about him...I was just cursed.

I need to take a little personal responsibility though, I suppose. As I sit here eating my breakfast of Costco Oriental Rice Crackers and Fresca (Hey! I'm pissed off and sick...I'll eat what I want. You're just lucky it's not leftover birthday cake.), it occurs to me that perhaps I don't give myself the best of care (yeah, yeah, I know...YOU THINK?!).

But in my 41 (gulp) years on this planet, I almost never have. What IS that about?

I have read just about every self-help book known to man. I work hard and care about the well-being of everyone else in my life. I DO want to be better, and often I really do try so hard to do all the right things. But for some crazy reason, I think I have come to believe that I matter least.

("Crazy" maybe being the operative word...)

The three times I've been pregnant, I ate with such care and attention to nutrition, I signed up for yoga, I walked, I swam, I did deep-breathing exercises and thought calming, relaxing thoughts. Mr. Blogger and Mom both remarked that they wished I were pregnant all the time, since they'd never seen me so healthy.

All right, I did also have three miscarriages, but that's not because of anything I did, or didn't do, and I'm at peace with that. That's not the point.

I cared about my health because there was someone else to worry about. Most mothers-to-be use "eating for two" as an excuse to go hog-wild on all the eating they haven't been able to do in years. I was the opposite. Not because I cared about my health though...oh no...it was because the baby needed the best.

Given that I've been out on Disability Leave two times in the last year, you'd think I'd have the BIG FAT WAKEUP CALL about my health. And I have. I am working my ass off right now, trying to get my head on straight. Hopefully the body will follow.

I'll still be sick every November 14th though. My step-Dad's just gonna have to deal.