Why Hospital Visits are So Costly
Posted by Moose on June 12th, 2006. Filed under: Meat Suit.I already know that I could never be a doctor with a legal MD. (Though I could provide competent services in a back alley somewhere with a leather strap and bloody hacksaw.) I now know that I could also never be a drug addict or even terribly promiscuous. (Do you KNOW how they test for STDs?) I had to get blood drawn today and the needle made me quake. The sight of my blood filling that little vial was enough to make me scream “My blood doesn’t belong outside my body. Please, for the love of god, PUT IT BACK IN!” The nurse was unimpressed. She callously took my tube of vital bodily fluid off to be poked and prodded for the Greater Medical Good. I took myself – minus several pints of blood – off for a restorative chocolate croissant and mocha. Later, after determining that sugary treats are not sufficient to recompense myself for such emotional scarring, I went out and bought the first pair of jeans that have ever looked good on me.
This is why I can’t employ the rewards system as incentive. I get sick of doing the work, decide I want the reward anyway, and quickly rechart my progress. Suddenly, “finish 2000 words” becomes “finish first sentence”. And off I go for a cookie. Or a pair of $100 jeans. By the way, my mother just disowned me.
Aside: One of my earliest memories is listening to my mom talk to a neighbor women about a pair of $30 shoes she just bought for her daughter. My mother recoiled in horror and blurted out, “I wouldn’t spend $30 on a pair of shoes for me!” (To be fair this was in 1983.)
The beauty of spending four times more than you should on a pair of jeans is that you can suddenly let your workout schedule slide. I don’t need to work to look good in my jeans because (snap!) I already do. Which means this weekend’s jaunt was a total waste of valuable Target time. Instead of perusing the snack aisle, I filled a cart with weights, yoga mat and yoga DVDs. The pursuit of every worthwhile goal begins with rampant consumerism.
Two yoga classes taught me that I do not have a quiet mind. When confronted with the need to just sit there for 10 minutes at a time and do nothing, I can’t keep my mind blank. When all you can do is sit there and breathe (because it would betray your cool exterior to jump up and sprint for the door), the brain rebels. Just to give myself something to do, I began hyperventilating. I would take hitching little breaths and convince myself that my brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I would then quietly panic. Something tells me this is not the way yoga should be done.
But who needs a quiet mind when your ass looks so smashing?
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