Nesting Selves

My ideal self?  My real self?  Hmmmmmmmm.
(Anne Lamott's essay got me thinking....)

I picture each of us like a set of Russian nesting dolls, all our former and hidden selves nestled in the outer one.

Some days, one of those mischievous inside selves pops out and shows its face and I shriek: Who's that?  What are you up to?  Sometimes I catch myself doing or saying something that seems to have come from someone I haven't even met yet!

Other days, I carefully choose which one to bring out--depending on what I need.

The one I needed this week was the one who takes herself to the doctors and checks for cracks.

First, the feet--those appendages that carry us from place to place, each with 26 bones, 33 joints, 107 ligaments, and 19 muscles and tendons. (FYI: The 52 bones in your feet make up about 25 percent of all the bones in your body. )

For years, I've been getting monthly pedicures to (a) have pretty toes, and (b) take care of a niggling problem with one toe that causes me to avoid closed-toe shoes.  Now that I have a  dancing partner, and he's sent me a pair of dancing boots for Valentines Day, I decided to consult with an authority who (a) speaks English and (b) can possibly fix the toe situation for good.  Yesterday, a podiatrist did just that.  First, he numbed the toe, then he carved upon the nail, then he covered it with brown stuff.  All night it throbbed like a pulsing baseball, but it's on the mend today.

Second, I went to my regular doctor who prescribed over-the-counter Mucinex DM for coughing--because it (a) works better than any prescription drug, and (b) is loosens the phlegm that is "thick like buggars." (I told her I was impressed with her professional terminology, then proceeded right away to HEB to buy me some.)

Third, the eyes.  The optometrist pronounced my eyes healthy and updated my prescription, and I was good to go. This exam was necessary because (a) I wanted to keep my eyes healthy, and (b) Mike had sent me really cool frames that need lenses in them.

Just to round out the week of doctoring, I'm going to a free hearing clinic on Monday to see if I can discover why I have to strain so hard to (a) hear conversations in noisy restaurants and (b) understand the speech on TV.

For some reason, I've been eating sugar like a crazy woman--particularly drawn to Little Debbies, those oatmeal cream cakes that I'm sure contain every forbidden and unpronounceable ingredient in Cookiedom.  This sugar binge has been reflected (a) on the scales, and (b) in the fit of my jeans.

I am looking within, soul-searching, this morning.  I was quite certain that one of my selves--my ideal self--contained a thin version somewhere, a size 8 self who wears glamorous slinky clothes and calls to mind Katherine Hepburn.  I had every intention of inviting  her out and buying her some new lingerie or something.  But, alas, every single version is pear-shaped!

If, however, I'm to follow the sage advice of Anne Lamott, I plan to (a) just accept that fact and (b) enjoy the rolls!