I Thought a Spider Tried to Kill Me. Actually, I Have Shingles and I’m Obviously Dying.

That’s pretty much my story. I woke up last week with an itchy itchy bug bite. No. Set of bug bites.

bug bites or shingles

Except I don’t really get bug bites. Ever. I mean, not mosquito bites anyways. Spiders regularly try to kill me. Death bugs hunt me in my sleep. One time, I got eaten alive by something in the sandbox that made me super sick and taught me never to go near the sandbox (also, that’s where I see the leprechaun. He tells me to burn things).

So maybe I do get bug bites. But not mosquito bites like normal people. I’m lucky like that.

Anyways, hypochondriac that I am, I ask Brian if maybe I have scabies. He’s all, “No, Chrissy. It’s a fucking spider bite. Stop being crazy.”

So then, I tell Brian, “A spider tried to kill me.”

He shook his head and said, “I know.”

I asked him what he was going to do about it, but he didn’t want to go spider hunting. I don’t know what I was expecting; he didn’t even want to go Pokemon hunting with me.

And then Dr. Mom looks at it, and she’s all, “That’s shingles.”

And then my aunt looks at it, and she’s all, “It’s definitely a staph infection.”

I’m sure if my dad were there, he would have told me to put some Windex on it.

Mom looks at it the next day, “No, maybe it’s not shingles. Maybe a spider did try to kill you.”

When the itchy itchy bug bite hadn’t gone away in 4 days, Brian started Googling shingles. And comparing pictures of shingles to my back. And then Dr. Google convinced him that I needed to go to the doctor. Which is usually when I go see her.

So yesterday I made my way into the doc’s office, where I told her I come from a long line of hypochondriacs (I often tell her stupid shit like, “I’m dying” and “I’m a hypochondriac.” Quite frankly, I’m not sure why she puts up with me).

She took one look at my backdomen and told me it was shingles, and proceeded to explain everything the internet already told Brian and me the night before. I nodded appreciatively and made her think she wasn’t totally wasting her time on me, and then she told me that it’s only contagious to people who haven’t had chicken pox and somehow come in contact with the itty bitty rash under my bra line. So basically, I have to take giant pills, use the topical steroid from that one time I burned my ass and keep my shirt on. Done and done.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Sometimes I Think About Lighting my Hair on Fire

I picture a lot of crazy thoughts during the course of my day. These thought cause some serious anxiety. But I figure,  maybe if I put them out into the world, they definitely won’t come true.

I’d like to point out, though, that this isn’t my hypochondria thinking. Instead, it’s the S part of my Myer’s-Briggs results. The part that pictures every possible outcome of a day’s events or even just a fleeting moment.

image

So yes, sometimes I do picture lighting my hair on fire. Not like…on purpose or anything. Just in a freak accident involving cooking, candles, bonfires, or lighters. No big deal.

I’ve also imagined a hundred ways I’ll die in a possibly firey car crash. Usually it’s when I’m driving, but sometimes when Brian is driving and I’m eating snacks. I’ve envisioned cars slamming into my car from the front, back, and sides. Falling into a body of water off a bridge (this is why my car has a life hammer).

Some mornings, I see myself tripping and falling onto the train tracks. I try to stand far enough away that the worst injury to ever come from the train platform is a drunken sprained ankle (remind me to tell you THAT story).

When I shower, I just know I’m going to slip and fall one of these days. I’m actually surprised it hasn’t happened yet. I always think about what would happen afterwards. And then I think to myself, maybe I should only shower when Brian’s home. Which, honestly, isn’t a big deal because Brian’s home like 95% of the time I’m home. And I’m sure the loud thud of my body going down in the tub wouldn’t be mistaken as anything normal.

Now that I think about it, guys…maybe those thoughts are kind of morbid. Maybe I should tell you about other disasters I think about. Like the chance of my phone flying into the toilet after…well…pooping. I’m terrified of losing my Internet limb down there and never wanting it back. Years ago, when flip phones were a thing, I dropped a couple in the bathroom, but the toilets were clean.

Or the flooding basement.  I mean, my car has already been flooded. Our basement has kind of flooded. But I picture a giant pool of water rising up from the sump pump well and pouring in through the windows. This does not help me sleep at night.

And really,  sometimes, I just picture myself grabbing a pair of scissors and chopping off my hair. It’s getting so fucking long, but I’m trying to keep it that way for the wedding. We’ll see how that goes.

image

What crazy things do you picture happening to you? What are you most afraid of?

PSA: If you’re in Illinois, go vote already.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!