Tuesday, February 06, 2007

I'm not just the President. I'm also a customer.

I have a secret I haven't told anyone. Not Mr. Man. Not the Evil Berta Lou. Not my ex-wife-in-law friend.


I think I can tell you though 'cause we’re close like that.

I'm a little scared. There it is. I said it.

I, Sher the OCD Chick, am the tiniest bit afraid.

Whether it's the surgery, or the looming possibility that Dr. Surgeon might also want my inside girl parts when he takes my gallbladder, I don't know.

It could be that I'm worried about having a camera shoved up my delicate derriere on Friday by someone I've never even met and who I'm sure isn't going to care one little bit about my personal policy when it comes to my delicate derriere.

And I totally have a policy.

Maybe I'm plain old sick and tired of being sick and tired. Or maybe... just maybe... I'm wondering how many times in the span of about a year one woman can get dragged to the edge of Cancer Mountain, told to get really close to have a look, only to have some guy in scrubs run up behind pretending he's gonna push you.

Then he doesn't. But, he thinks it’s funny, so he does it again.

I couldn’t care less about the gallbladder. It’s bigger than it should be, just like me, and so it must be yanked out. Frankly, I’m hoping it weighs at least 20 pounds so I can stop trying to diet. However, I’m pretty fond of the inside parts that make me a girl and I think I might like to hang onto them a while longer. I’m afraid if they take them all out I’ll wake up from the anesthesia and suddenly want to watch football and scratch my testicles.

As long as I’m telling you my secrets, I may as well tell it all.

Umm, I don’t really handle being scared very well. When I am afraid, there is a short in my obsessive-compulsive brain that starts making a weird sizzling noise much like when a squirrel gets fried on an electric wire. I start thinking weird thoughts and doing weird things. Plus there is that awful burning smell no amount of Joop will cover.

Here’s a glimpse into my fear induced crazy. Today I have been very concerned about my eyebrows. Not like you normal people worry about your eyebrows, but in a way only obsessive-compulsive people can worry about eyebrows. (Normal people do worry about eyebrows, don’t they? I have no frame of reference.)

My philosophy is that eyebrows are like little hats for your eyes. I look at other people’s eyebrows and I always think one of two things:

a. I am jealous of your eyebrows, or…
b. You would look better if I shaved your eyebrows off and drew them in with a Sharpie.

I spend a lot of time on my eyebrows. There is a regimen of plucking, shaping, brushing, and coloring. This morning I was in too big a hurry to go through all the necessary eye-hat grooming steps, so I skipped a couple. As a result, I worried all day.

Because I felt like everyone who looked at me thought they might like to Sharpie my face, I kept trying to turn my head in search of a flattering eyebrow angle. I’m reasonably certain I looked as if I was afflicted with some malady which causes peculiar head tilting.

And the beat goes on. In an effort to fix the eyebrow insanity that happened today, I will wake up early tomorrow and begin plucking and shaping and teasing…always trying to make them perfectly even, because that’s how we OCD’ers roll…until I have tweezed myself into a happy place where the fear of another hike up that mountain can’t touch me.

You see where I’m going here, right? I’m all kinds of crazy right now and if I don’t find a healthy way to handle it, I might have to call Eyebrow Club for Women and get myself some implants.

Watch that little picture of me up there in the right hand corner to find out how I’m doing. If I suddenly look like Groucho Marx, please send your eyebrow replacement donations to humorwriter@gmail.com.

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