Welcome to the World of Self Diagnosis of a Hyprocontriate

I’m just gonna say it… I wasn’t emotionally prepared for cholesterol medicine to choose violence.

You know how the commercials casually say, “May cause muscle pain?” Like you might pull a hamstring reaching for the remote. What they don’t mention is waking up feeling like your entire body got into a bar fight with itself overnight—and nobody’s willing to apologize.

One minute I was fine. Then my back hurt. Then my shoulders. Then my ribs. Then my arm. Then some mystery spot under my armpit I didn’t even know existed.

Naturally, I did what every calm, rational person does… diagnosed myself with everything on the internet. Lupus? Probably. Fibromyalgia? Sure, why not. Polymyositis? Dermatomyositis? I can't even pronounce them, but they sound expensive. A thyroid problem? Toss it in. Vitamin deficiency? Maybe. A rare muscle disease found only in people over 50 who Google symptoms after dark? Seems legit. I am over 50. Or maybe an alien is using my muscles as a trampoline. Honestly… still not ruling that one out.

Poor Dennis has heard more about my muscles in the last four days than in the previous 33 years. I'm pretty sure he's quietly eyeing the guest room until the nice people arrive with the white jackets.

The good news? Every blood test came back normal… except one white blood cell count that apparently didn't get the memo and decided to add a little drama. So now I'm stuck wondering if my statin threw the world's biggest temper tantrum, or if I picked up some random virus just to keep things interesting.

The worst part isn't even the pain. It's that once you hit a certain age, every symptom becomes a new rabbit hole. "Oh... my left pinky twitched." Five minutes later you're reading about six diseases you've never heard of and somehow convincing yourself you have all of them.

Apparently aging now comes with a side hustle in overthinking and symptom tracking. Every ache is homework. Every weird twinge is an unscheduled pop quiz.

If you've ever wondered what getting older feels like, it's basically your body sending out complaint notices on a rotating schedule while the maintenance department is permanently on vacation.

So for now, I've broken up with my statin, I'm cautiously reintroducing my muscles to normal life, and I'm trying very hard not to Google anything after 9 p.m. Because if the internet has taught me anything, it's that by 9:15 I'm either dying… or I just slept funny. Honestly, I'm rooting for "slept funny."

If nothing else, I've learned two important things: my body has a real flair for theatrics, and I am absolutely not cut out for a career in self-diagnosis.

My Creative Juices Have Terrible Timing

I have discovered something about myself… apparently my creativity clocks in for the night shift.

Around 10:00 p.m. my brain suddenly decides, “You know what sounds like a great idea? Let’s write a blog, or romance novel! We can make a birthday card, start a Christmas project, reorganize the craft room, tune the violin, and maybe clean out the garage while we’re at it.”

Really? NOW?

The problem is that grown-up responsibilities expect me to be awake tomorrow morning. And if I stay up following every brilliant little idea that pops into my head, tomorrow night’s creative genius is going to be replaced by a woman asleep in the recliner by 8:30.

This system is not sustainable.

My brain has a waiting list.

Daytime Raven says, “You should probably get some rest.”

Nighttime Raven says, “Sleep is temporary. Inspiration is forever.”

Honestly, I wish my creativity would punch a time clock and show up around 10:00 in the morning instead. We’d get so much done! But no… apparently my imagination is part vampire.

So if you see me wandering around tomorrow looking a little tired, just know it’s because my brain spent half the night opening seventeen tabs that my body now has to figure out how to finish.

Creative people… please tell me I’m not the only one whose best ideas arrive precisely when common sense has already gone to bed.

I Planned for Getting Older, Not Retirement

 Retirement is weird.

You spend your whole working life thinking, "One day I'll have all this free time." Then one day you wake up and realize... nobody gave you any instructions on what you're supposed to do with it. Don't get me wrong. I have plenty to do. I just haven't figured out what my "next thing" is yet.

What I do know is that I want to build one more house. I built this one. I even designed it. At the time, I thought I was planning for getting older. I made the doorways a little wider and tried to think ahead.What I didn't plan for was retirement.

I didn't think about having a place where my grandkids could spread out their toys while I spread out my craft supplies. I didn't think about wanting a room where glitter explosions wouldn't have to be cleaned up before dinner. I didn't think about one side of the house being loud with kids laughing, playing games, or staying up way too late while the other side stayed quiet enough that Dennis and I could pretend we were going to bed early.

Apparently, I planned for aging. I forgot to plan for living.

So now my brain spends entirely too much time designing a house we haven't even built yet. I know where the craft room goes. I know where the grandkids will play. I know where the coffee pot belongs because, let's be honest, that's important information.

I've probably built this house seventeen times in my head already. The funny thing is, I think I want this house now more than I did when I was still working. Maybe it's because I finally have the time to enjoy it.

Or maybe retirement gives your brain entirely too much free time. If I'm not designing a house in my head, I'm wondering why my shoulder hurts, convincing myself I have some rare disease Google discovered at 2:00 a.m., or trying to remember why I walked into the laundry room in the first place.

Honestly, building a house sounds like the healthiest hobby I've come up with so far. Because the longer I wait, the more my current house reminds me of all the things I wish I'd thought of 10 years ago.

 

Fine. I Guess We’re Just Eating Cookies.

My husband and I were watching the news today, and apparently the safest thing to consume is… anxiety.

Every story was another warning. There are viruses going around. Don’t eat this fruit. Wash those vegetables. Peel them. No, boil them. 

Rice? Oh, rice has arsenic. But don’t worry—you can buy a different kind of rice. Then boil it, dump the water, boil it again in fresh water, say a prayer, and maybe you’ll survive dinner.

At some point I looked at Dennis and said, “I think we’re just going to start eating cookies for every meal.” He didn’t even hesitate. “I could do that.” Finally. A man with solutions. Then I remembered a conversation I had with my daughter earlier today about cookies. Specifically, the kind of people who put raisins in cookies. Those people are not to be trusted. Listen… if it looks like a chocolate chip, it had better BE a chocolate chip. Don’t let me bite into what I thought was happiness only to discover betrayal wrapped in a raisin. And while we’re making requests… keep the oatmeal out too. I don’t need healthy cookies. If I wanted healthy, I’d still be standing over my sink washing, peeling, boiling, draining, and re-boiling my dinner. Give me the good stuff. White sugar. Brown sugar. Chocolate chips. Sugar, sugar, and a little more sugar.

At this point, cookies seem like less work than making rice.