At some point in the last couple of years, I crossed a bridge from being youthful and carefree to being a hypochondriac.
The upshot is that I assume every little symptom, slight pain, and innocuous bump is a sign of some terminal disease.
ME: What's this thing on my hand? That wasn't there yesterday! Oh no, I have hand cancer!
TERRY: That's a callous.
ME: Oh.
This was going to happen eventually, but I figured I had at least 10 more years to go.
It doesn't help that I read a lot of "how to take care of yourself and achieve perfect health" books, all of which are well-intentioned but also fill me with fear and dread over the things I'm not doing to maintain my body.
That list of neglected activities includes, but is certainly not limited to, stress management, strength training, eating salmon, and exercising every day.
So part of me assumes that since I'm not doing everything I'm supposed to be doing, I'll be dead inside of five years.
I liked it better when I was 25 and had only a vague inkling that that second piece of cake probably wasn't a good idea.
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