Monotony, Tummy Aches and the Fake Depression

8:55. Chris Berman and The Boy tell me the game I'm about to not watch is a rivalry. The Giants and the Cowboys just kicked off. Hank Williams, Jr., though he was just standing on the fifty-yard line, does not sing about his rowdy friends. The cheerleaders, though they flanked Hank on the line, do not dance or kick on cue in the song Hank does not sing. Instead, we watch a taped performance in which Little Richard screams and allegedly plays piano, but I just inexplicably called him James Brown.

9:01. Plaxico Burress scores a 50-yard touchdown. I have long been of the opinion that some men were destined to be in the NFL, and their mothers knew it, so they named them accordingly. Lawyer Malloy. Peerless Price. Adalius Thomas. Burress fits with these guys.

9:03. The Boy, dressed in white Adidas pants and a brown t-shirt my dad gave him that reads, "I'm probably lying," shakes his hiney vigorously to the tune of Fall Out Boy's off-key insistence.

The 8 minutes you have just relived is meant to depict how my life has fallen into a predictable pattern. I just plopped on the couch beside The Boy, after preparing dinner and lunch and coffee and halfheartedly cleaning the kitchen. I feel sad that it's already almost tomorrow. It might be the darkness that always falls too soon, but somehow all this monotony still strikes me as unpredictable. I can never believe, whether I slept or not, how quickly "7:00" comes. Of course it isn't really 7:00, hence the quotation marks; The Boy and I take turns sneakily setting the clock forward, all the while trying to forget the difference between now and what we think now is. It still doesn't help. Likewise, I can never believe how quickly 7:00 pm comes and goes. My gym bag lives in the trunk of my car. I haven't worn my Sauconys in far too long.

My doctor informed me that I should do more yoga. "The relaxing kind." I insisted, indignantly, that yoga wouldn't help. I neglected to mention the yoga that I do involves a "butt ball" and a woman who reminds me to tense up those muscles I "sit down on." She also encourages me to check in with my hamstrings. "Notice what they are saying back to you." She does not relax me; she makes me contemplate the most efficient means of committing homicide from the downward dog position.

Minutes before this exchange, I slumped in the plastic chair against a particle board desk, having slipped my olive green pumps back on after being dismally disappointed at the scale.

"We haven't seen you in awhile," The tall Brit with the voice from the outgoing message had remarked, glancing at my chart. He motioned to the scale.

"It's hard to get in here," I mumbled, recalling my conversation with him several months prior, when I attempted to make an appointment for a physical. I was told there was an opening in March. I did the mental math, realizing I could be 7 months pregnant by then. Not that I would be, but I needed a way to visualize how much can change in that time. I did not book the appointment.

"You have to schedule your sickness to be seen here," The Brit chuckled. I did not.

Fortunately, as The Boy had become increasingly concerned with my doubling over multiple times daily, he offered to make the appointment for me. I was curled into a series of punctuation marks on our bed; he was worrying via office telephone. I let him call the doctor, and I'm not sure what he said, but it worked and I had an appointment the same day. I tried to blame my sleepless nights on a steady stream of company. But, given the fact that I lacked sleep due to discomfort regardless of who was sleeping upstairs, I acquiesced.

The Boy insisted on leaving work early to pick me up. I resisted, but he won. I dressed nicely in an attempt to feel better.

To my surprise, my red-haired Russian doctor did not examine me. She did not check my blood pressure, temperature or pulse. She didn't touch my stomach or prescribe medicine or tests. We sat at her desk and she asked me how I felt. She interrupted me to tell me I am more stressed than I realize.

"But how can that be?" I countered. "The most stress I've been through recently is over," I reasoned, approaching the five-month anniversary of my windy wedding and my father's (untimely) brush with (far more untimely) death. She said something about how people never get sick during the war. I didn't hear what came next, because I was too busy thinking, "there's no way that's correct."

As I argued, feeling my face and neck flush with splotches, as they are prone to do when I'm impassioned, I realized I was losing.

"You're coming across very anxious," she said.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, wanting to throttle her. She wanted to prescribe an antidepressant; I wanted not to feel sick every day. I wanted not to worry everywhere I go or every time I make plans. What if I don't feel well? What if I'm no fun? What if I can't leave early? Of course I'm anxious; I always feel miserable! She insisted the cycle went the other way around. I quit arguing and accepted the sample, but I haven't taken the pills and I'm working on a second opinion. I made it to the Saab and cried frustration at The Boy. We visited another pharmacy for another herbal remedy I didn't believe would work. I'm not sure if it's working or not, but I really miss my Diet Coke.

I've bought a new Nalgene bottle and lots of Crystal Light on-the-go. I just finished a dinner of grilled chicken breast, brown rice, asparagus and charcoal capsules. I'm doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing--definitely don't feel better yet. But then, I'm sure it's all in my worried mind.