When I left the house this morning, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Yeah, I was on the way to the rheumatologist with a list of complaints to report. But I was comfortable in my skin and comfortable in my clothes. I felt Christmasy, with a green flannel-lined jacket over a white shirt, and a Santa Claus necklace. I wasn't wearing makeup, but I felt like I didn't need it. On the way down to the doctor's office in Thornton (north of Denver), it occurred to me that I wanted to take a selfie, an impulse I very rarely experience, much less indulge. I was late to the appointment, so I skipped it. By the time I completed my appointment and ran through Costco on a fruitless attempt to buy a specific kind of canned cat food, I was too tired to remember that I'd ever had the thought.
I spent much of today like I did yesterday, trying to finish making presents while nodding off under the influence of muscle relaxers, but with the added nuance of dyspepsia. By the time I normally start blogging, I realized I had taken no photos today worth sharing, and I remembered the impulse from earlier. I wondered whether it was still worth trying a selfie. I tried no less than twenty times, each one worse than the one before. No matter what angle I held the camera, I looked gaunt and unamused. Now I wish I had done it earlier also, to see if I really collapsed that much from the vibrant person I thought I was at 10 this morning, to the groggy, sore shell I am now.
I have just enough of an ego not to want to put up a lot of really bad pictures of me, and I'm self-conscious enough to think most of them aren't that great. It would probably be healthy for me to stop hiding so much. It will take a lot to take the sting out of seeing pictures I hate, but in the interest of personal growth, here is the least bad one from just now:
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