I went to the doctor yesterday because of a rash. Today, I get to go to the dermatologist to see if he can figure out what the hell is all over my body. They are trying to rule out.......chicken pox.
Fucking chicken pox. I'm not kidding. I wish I was.
I am almost 32 years old, and I already had chicken pox when I was 8. I had them everywhere. But I still may have them.
My doctor (a cute guy with an awesome accent, and you know how I love accents) said it is very uncommon for people to get chicken pox again, it rarely happens. The minute he said that, I knew. I fucking knew.
That is the type of luck I have. If it is uncommon, and there is the smallest, itsiest chance of it happening, it will happen to me.
Which is why I'll probably end up knocked up, again, with triplets right before my hysterectomy.
I'm not a terrible person, I don't commit crimes, I don't steal, I don't beat up the homeless or eat candy in front of starving kids.
I sit on the board of a soccer club, go to PTA meetings, teach reading readiness to kindergartners, color with my kids, take my dog to the dog park, take care of my husband when he has bad reactions to allergy shots and when he has the flu. I don't clean my house with chemicals, instead I make my own cleaning products from natural products that won't harm the earth, I make all our bread from scratch every 2 days and stock for my soups.
So why, oh why, do bad things always happen to me. I need to be put in a bubble, I think. A big old bubble. All I need to be happy is a library of books, time with my kids, occasional sex, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.