During the week, Husband Mike has a day job in which talks to a lot of very ill people, with ailments you have never heard of and probably don’t want to know about. But he comes home and tells me about them because otherwise he’d lose his mind from sadness and fear. There are so many ways to get sick, you guys, and so many of them will just blindside you. We talk about them, and we mourn, and we say how grateful we are not to be ill ourselves.
It’s Monday morning. You roll out of bed, deeply grumpy, and slog through your morning ablutions in a haze. The outfit you assemble appears acceptable in your bedroom mirror, so you pack your lunch, lock the door, and make your way to the office. By 10:15 a.m., you’ve had a cup of coffee or two and are finally starting to perk up. You head to the restroom, glance at your reflection for the first time since you left the house, and BLEEEEAAARRRRGH! Who is that mismatched, dumpy-frumpy, stylistically impaired chick? Look at that ill-fitting blouse, those scandalously snug pants, that bizarre-ass necklace! How the HELL did this outfit pass muster?