Where’s Oprah when you need her?

I haven’t been writing about the shingles because dear God in heaven, I am sick of hearing myself talk about how I have a headache or I can’t sleep or blah blah blah.

I’m not contagious. The rash is gone, replaced by pain. I’m back at work. I’m exhausted.

And things at work are amped up. We need stuff and we need it now and we’re all freaking out. Basically, I was met at the door with several coworkers saying, “Hope you’re feeling better. I need you to do this project for me right now.”

OK, then.

So, the stress is at a higher level than when I got stress-related shingles. Gotcha.

I’m not quite doing my regular “pretend it never happened and go back to life as usual” schtick. There’s a voice whispering in my brain, telling me to get this shit straightened out or next time it won’t be shingles. It will be worse, whatever that means.

My Guy was scared of me when I got home from work tonight. “You slammed the crap out of the door,” he said. “Why don’t you have some wine?”

I’m back on Weight Watchers. Wine is, like, 7 points.

“I give you permission to not track a glass of wine,” he said.

“Am I that big of a stressed-out bitch?”

He hugged me and opened the fridge. “Look – here’s an open bottle!”

Is a day at Corporate Behemoth followed by a run to the grocery really that stressful? Am I a wuss if I don’t want to do this anymore, whatever “this” is?

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