I'm going to the party, goddamnit, even though I feel - and look - like death warmed over. I'll bring a bell so as not to infect anyone, but I have to go because otherwise I'll end up taking pictures of my knees in bed again and I simply cannot face it.
And I think I might go to the doctor next week too, because I just went back through my blog to discover that I felt exactly as horrible as this exactly one month ago and that seems to me to speak eloquently of one of those female type things. Great. My gynecologist is one of those laissez faire healthy mother nature will fix it types; she'll probably charge me $200 or so to say, hey, this is what happens when you get older. First I'll have to spend 45 minutes naked on a metal table hoping against hope that I haven't been forgotten and worrying about obscure tropical diseases that I might have picked up from some grimy dollar bill at the register at work. Then my doctor will breeze in, poke me uncomfortably for a bit and then say, hey, it's almost certainly nothing, or we could run some tests. Eeeep. Yet again, aging bites.