They're giving me nightmares.
All I can think about is that death loves older women like me. That while I'm protecting my husband, the bogeyman is coming after me. That one of the bum-cracked guys who is fixing my roof is going to drop dead before my very eyes -- because in a threesome of roofers, death is going to get one of them.
Who's writing this stuff?
I'm not saying the Make Death Wait campaign isn't working.
I got myself to the doctor and I'm now on blood pressure medication that makes me feel like Margie, the pregnant cop in Fargo.
Right in the middle of the gym today, I heard the famous bit in my head.
Are you alright, Rose?
Nope, I think I'm gonna to barf.
The meds have got my heart racing like Roger Rabbit, after a sighting of Jessica Rabbit's boobies.
Before I started this medication, I felt perfectly fine. I could run and lift at the gym for an hour. Now, I can barely do the elliciptical on the weanie scale for thirty minutes without feeling like my lungs are going to explode.
Yesterday, instead of working, I laid on the couch for six hours afraid to move.
I went to the pharmacist next door to ask if it was normal for my heart rate to be over 110 and he said no. While the meds have quickly reduced my blood pressure to a normal level, it's sped up my heart rate twenty-five points.
"Oh," he said, knitting his brow, "The doctor might have to give you another medication to counteract the blood pressure medication and slow down your heart."
Ten days ago, I wasn't on anything. I was happy, relaxed and med-free.
Now, they're going to load up my medicine cabinet with more pills than they found on Anna Nicole Smith!
Thanks, Heart and Stroke. Thanks a lot.
I'm still going to take the damned medicine, at least until I can figure out a way to lose the hula hoop around my middle. After all, I don't want to be a drooling vegetable at 60.
But please, take those damned commercials off the air.
I can't afford to add anxiety medication to my already over-stocked dossette.