I like going to doctors.
I realise that this is probably a weird thing to like, but think about it: you go to a doctor when you are unwell, and they help you feel better. I have visited doctors often enough over the course of my life, and have been blessed with friendly ones, that going to see a doctor isn’t an unpleasant experience. I particularly like seeing my rheumatologist, partly because it is the only time I get an accurate measure of my weight, BMI, and blood pressure (ideal in all three, I am pleased to add) and because she has cool machines. I am also one of those weird patients who asks lots of questions.
Anyway, despite the mild flare up in March, I have been given a clean bill of health and have been declared “normal” by a medical professional (though I am sure some would like to contest this claim). I can do anything I want.
It is also incredibly warm—a sultry 19 C / 66 F—and I wish I were wearing short sleeves. As it is, I rolled up my sleeves and found myself wanting to walk on the shady side of the street. Ah, the irony in acclimating.
And now, to work, to work… I doubt my supervisor would be pleased if I claimed that, since I can do anything I want, I chose to sit on the beach all day eating ice cream instead of finishing up my upgrade portfolio.