Early yesterday morning, for the first time, I had that procedure that makes every 50 year old cringe when the doctor says "So, you're 50 now...". I graduated with flying colors and even got some nice souvenir photos of my colon which will be posted on FaceBook with the caption "Ample Fanny's Sigmoid Safari". (that's real colon humor)
I came home flying and all smiley on a leftover poof of anesthetic, ate some breakfast which consisted of a fried egg sandwich with Sriracha mayo, giant cup of coffee and a fistful of cheddar goldfish crackers. Hey, they said I could eat a normal meal. My insulted and outraged insides were still insulated in that happy little cloud as I dumped this offense on them.
Dave went out for a bike ride and of course it was then that my body chose to have some kind of high magnitude Richter Scale event which started as a 4.5 and quickly broke the needle off the meter. I was shaking so hard I could hear the windows shattering in my neighbor's house.
Okay, I can feel your look. It's a slight exaggeration. Only a little.
I could barely walk as I stumbled into the kitchen to find my phone but I couldn't pick it up. I had to bend over the table and lie on my puny T-rex arms to hold them still and tried to dial my doctor. Nope, she closed at lunch. Shit. Okay, where was that piece of paper with the Endoscopy Center on it? Found it and held my eyeballs still enough to read the number. Misdialed 3 times and finally got a recording - everyone is at lunch. Shit again. Tried calling Dave on his bike and got his voicemail. Shit, shit, shit!!!! (I'm sensing a theme here) Called the doctor back and got the emergency Dr. paging number after the recorded voice read me the entire story of Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day and the weather report and offered me a 50% off coupon for my next visit. I finally got through to a human. I could not speak at that point beyond huh-uh-huh-colonoscopy this morning-huh-huh-huh-can't stop shuh-shuh-shaking-huh-huh-huh...." I burst into tears of frustration as I huffed my way through the story between my chattering teeth.
Stumbled back into bed waiting for the Doctor to call back. Uh oh. The formerly sleepy villagers were awake now and not happy. Not at all. The Egg Sandwich/Coffee/Goldfish Cracker Express Train from Hell was coming up the big pink pipe and I'm frantically looking for my shoes so I can put them on to go throw up. Nope, those are suede. No those don't match my red yoga pants and cute red t-shirt with the squirrel on it....."HEY, YOU, YES YOU IDIOT, YOU ARE THROWING UP!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU???? YOU DON"T NEED SHOES ON TO THROW UP MUCH LESS SHOES THAT MATCH!!??!! My shaking, contorting body was screaming at me and I finally broke the spell and raced for the loo.
I'm fine. Turns out I was having a bad reaction to the anesthesia.
And the moral of this story is: OCD is not always rational but it can save your suede shoes.