Let me brush the dust off this...

It can't be October. I mean, it just can't. How is that even possible?

I'm getting ready to start my 33rd year of life next month (in other words, I'm turning 32), and so far, the thrilling 30s have been anything BUT thrilling. More like, kicked in the teeth, knocked flat to the ground, and then made fun of for having a big butt 30s.

Lately I've been experiencing some health problems that just won't let up, so I decided to bite the bullet, and visit the doctor. And then HE decided to run some blood tests on me, and the blood tests then decided to give all of us the middle finger. I have a follow-up scheduled in a couple weeks, as well as a couple 'specialist' appointments coming up, and well I can't say I'm very happy about it all.

I don't know what happened, honestly. 29 was so great. I had so much energy, so much ambition. I mean, it's not like sunshine was shining out of my arse every second of every day, but I just generally felt...good. I got remarried toward the tail end of 29, in September, and I remember thinking how GREAT everything was going. I was young, healthy, and I just married a young, healthy guy who was ready to take on the world with me.

And then 30 came around the corner, said, "Oh yeah?" and gave me the biggest wedgie of my life.

All of sudden, getting out of bed in the morning got hard. And I couldn't eat like I used to...spicy foods started organizing their own laser light show and pyrotechnics in my gut. And then, talking got hard...I started forgetting simple things, like people's names I had just met or what I was doing in a room right after I walked into it.

Know what else I got in my 30s? CARPAL TUNNEL. I was just sitting at my computer, working, when this shooting pain starts up my left arm and I literally thought for a split second that I was having a stroke until I noticed that my wrist was starting to get unusually crunchy.

You should have seen the look the doctor gave me when I was describing how it felt, like I was describing a new flavor of Doritos instead of the mystery pain in my wrist. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how crunchy would you say your wrist is?" "Um, somewhere just above Cool Ranch."

So, I don't know what the heck happened. All I know is it's way past my bedtime and where on earth did I put my Tums?

Just call me Humpy.

I am married to probably one of the healthiest and fittest guys I have ever known. Well, aside from Chris Evans. He is just delicious. *drool*

Aherm.

And while I admire my hubby's focus on all things health-related and his occasional burst of excitement over the latest protein powder gag oops, I mean, yummy! he's purchased, I, on the other hand, prefer the Couch Method. As in I sit on it. The Couch.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I've attended hubby's Zumba classes quite a number of times, and Jabba the Hutt I am not...at least, not on my good days. (PMS days? Ehh, you better have a Snickers bar in one hand and a chair to fight me back with in the other.)

Hubby loves me at the weight I am at, and is constantly assuring me of that. I've never felt pressure from him to change anything, and because of that, my own self-confidence has boosted to new levels that I didn't really know during my teens and 20's, unfortunately. In other words, there are days where I don't absolutely loathe the way I look.

Progress! I take my victories in stride.

I am, however, my own worst critic. Most women are. Everyone else around them can assure them all they want; the result is still the same with most when confronted, face to face, with (cue the dramatic music) The Mirror of Atrocious Realities.

*screams* *faints* *recovers* *has a snack*

You know how the process goes:

Ugh, is that a MUFFIN TOP? Yes, yes it is. I know it because it resembles the one I had for breakfast.

And are those....oh no.....LINES on my face?! 

Don't even get me STARTED on my sagging butt. They look like two deflated camel humps.

I had even more reason to bemoan everything pertaining to me, myself and my deflated humps when, in an effort to get a head-start on our move in a month, I lifted a couple pieces of luggage, and then realize a couple hours later....OW.

My arms screamed at me as only triceps that obviously haven't lifted weight of that kind (or any kind, really) could. At first, I didn't know what could cause such pain, until I did a mental check of the past 24 hours of events and realized what caused my arms to feel like a sadistic little arm fairy was pushing hot needles into them.

While laughing maniacally.

And eating my favorite ice cream. Just to mess with my head.

WHAT. Fairies could eat ice cream. Don't look at me like that. I get enough judgment from The Mirror of Atrocious Realities, thankyouverymuch.