Adult in Training

Every girl dreads hearing those words, because every girl knows it’s just code for: “You look like crap.” Last night at work, I’m fairly certain that every single guy I work with told me one or the other.  I must have looked a hot mess.  Which isn’t really surprising, since I felt a hot mess.  It’s still discouraging though, to know I did such a poor job concealing it.

When I got to work I was feeling a little tired and my knee felt like I had twinged it somehow.  By the time first break rolled around, I felt like I was going to throw-up and I was walking with a pronounced limp.  This is when the comments started to roll in.  “Are you okay, you look… tired.”  What I probably looked was green.  However, when I brushed it off with: “Just a little nauseous, which seems to be the norm lately.” The memory of the Lead Fist was still fresh in my mind.  However, the first comment out of one of the guys was: “Are you pregnant?”  I’d like to say I sent him a withering glare, but at that point I was holding my head in my hands, and couldn’t really be bothered to.  I did however scoff, and ask him to please not spread that rumour, as my reputation – while spotless outside of work – has already taken enough abuse.

After break I went back to work.  At one point, I needed a pump truck to pull a skid in from outside.  So I asked one of my friends, who happens to be a grandpa.  As I limped my way over there, he gave me a speculative look.  “What’s wrong?”  I told him nothing, my knees just hurt sometimes.   Instead of believing me, he decided the reason I looked like crap was because I had been ridden hard the day before.  I thought the best course of action would be to change the subject.  I was wrong, because my friend took this evasion as proof positive he was on the right track.  After that, all night, whenever he saw me limping around, he would sort of smile and shake his head.

I told my mom via instant message when I got home, and she told me to go to the doctor.  I just switched doctors, and frankly I was hoping I could break her in with something routine.  My old doctor was absolutely useless.  When I came home with a list of maladies after my sophomore year of college, she limited me to just two complaints, and reponded to both with: “Sometimes that sort of thing just happens.”  Really?  Couldn’t you like order some tests, or something, just to fool me into thinking you know what you’re doing?  I’m going to go to this new doctor with: I’m twenty-three and I think I have arthritis.  Oh, and the other day I discovered this weird lump behind my ear.  Fix me.”  And all I have to say is this: If she says that these things sometimes happen, I may shank her with the ear examiner.