Doctor? Doctor. Doctah? Doctoooor.

Today I got a call from the doctor.
No, not that doctor. He doesn’t have opposable thumbs and isn’t sure how to operate a phone.

Sorry, it’s the truth.

No, the call was from the office of my lady doctor. I have high cholesterol. Again. Two years ago, it was 232. I got it down to 196. And now? Up to 236.

My blood is evidently not blood at all, but melted butter. Mmm … butter. So a few days ago when I was all, “I believe in real butter?” Well, perhaps it would have been more fitting for me to be all, “I believe in clogging my arteries as quickly as possible.”

What the hell?

Thankfully, the prescription was more fish oil and more exercise, not some random pharmaceutical. But I exercise every day. I am thin-ish. I eat very little red meat. I am a nice person. What the hell am I doing with crazy high cholesterol?

I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I went to book club tonight and enjoyed brownies, wine, dips, fruit pizza, and crackers. Oh, and some carrots. But they were merely vessels for the dip. Screw you, HDL, LDL, whatever your name is.

What is it about turning 30 that suddenly means the warranty is up and your body begins to slowly but surely fall apart? I could sort of handle the weird things my skin is doing? But the “I eat Big Macs every day” cholesterol? Are you kidding me?

Perhaps I do subscribe to Lil’ Frankfurter’s point of view. Everything is better with more toys. His current personal best for his office / my bathroom? Seven toys, two big globs of stuffing, and one pair of my pajamas.

He is thorough.
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