If you give a Maggie a margarita...

No, I did not actually give my dog alcohol. But I commented on my FB status that Maggie was all freaked out by the thunderstorms, and my aunt in Texas suggested a margarita might be a good solution (a little hair of the dog, if you will). So then I started musing about what turned into the title (a reference to the If You Give A Mouse A Cookie and If You Give A Pig A Pancake books, which, are, like, a couple of my favorite children's books EVER). If you give a Maggie a margarita, she's going to want a wedge of lime. If you give her a lime, she's going to think it's been far too long since you dropped any food on the floor...hmm. If you give a Maggie a margarita, she's going to want some salt for the rim. If you give her some salt, she's going to think it's been far too long since you dropped any food on the floor...or, okay...If you give a Maggie a margarita, she's going to think it's been far too long since you dropped any food on the floor...

I do love that dog.

So I tried to wear the goofy ski boots last night. Remember how I said I couldn't even keep socks on my feet at night (by which, by the way, I meant that I take my socks off in my sleep if I can even stand to keep them on that long. I could totally wear socks with the boots if I wanted to)? I had 'em on for like an hour before I actually went to bed, and then managed to sleep about 45 minutes before I woke up because I was kicking myself trying to take them off in my sleep. And, honestly, my legs hurt a LOT more today. Which may have been all the walking of yesterday, or all the manipulating of my feet, but I think a big part of it was all the fussing with the boots.

So now I have a large, furry hot pack applied to my left shin and I'm NOT wearing the boots tonight. Because I'm on weekend call tomorrow, and as the second year, I get to walk all around the hospital seeing consults. Which is painful in so many ways.

Stupid defective feet.

Gomer, today? I said, "So the podiatrist said this and blah blah blah and then he gave me these stupid splints I'm supposed to wear and is going to make me special orthotics or something," and he gets this devious little grin on his face and says, "You're like Forrest Gump!"

So now we both have sore shins.

(No, I didn't really kick him in the shins. I said something really clever like "shut uuuuup!" and then let him kick my ass around the gym for half an hour...but, the story's always better with a little secondary revision.)

The podiatrist also told me, incidentally, that he'd "be remiss" if he didn't mention my weight. I was like....really? He then went on to tell me that, well, obviously he wasn't going to manage my weight loss but I needed to pay attention to my calories as well, not just my physical activity.

....?

I resisted the urge to say, "What? My weight....oh, my god! When did I get fat?! Why didn't anyone tell me this before you did?! Thank God you were here, I never would've known!" or "uh, yeah, jackass, I get it, because, see, I'm a real doctor, not a doctor of feet." And I resisted the urge to kick him, too (which was hard, because he was right at prime kicking height when he said this). And I said something like, "right, yeah, no, I know that, and part of the reason I came in now, since, you know, I've had pain like this pretty much for the last quarter century (I distinctly remember my pediatrician telling me, "Oh, you'll grow out of it." Oops), is because it's starting to impede my progress at the gym. And it's probably worse now because of all the time I'm spending there."

And furthermore...why...well, I mean, don't assume, period. But why the comment about "watching my calories?" It's not like I was sitting in his office eating a donut. Do I have the best diet? Of course not. I'm a stressed-out, overworked resident. And in fact, I'm a stressed-out, overworked, PTSD-addled resident with an eating disorder. But that doesn't mean I live on chocolate cake, know what I mean? I generally do okay. Don't assume you know.

Which may not have stimulated much more than a big eye roll from me on a good day, but I also spent an hour on Wednesday getting criticized by one of my psychotherapy supervisors. Apparently she thinks I'm "too unsettled" and it's "interfering with my learning experience." A, how the hell does she have any idea what my "learning experience" is? That would be the very nature of an experience, in that, it's mine, and defined by how I, well, experience it. And 2...I mean...come on, lady. It's no great insight that I'm unsettled. I get the sense that she thinks I should be so grateful for these big interpretations she makes (because, remember, she's the one that told me they weren't admitting me to the institute - although they weren't not admitting me, either - because they were concerned that I didn't seem to have much reflective capacity), but in point of fact, I'm a big ball of reflective capacity. I reflect, ponder, analyze, debate, discuss, and ruminate on every morsel of my life until it's ground into a fine powder. I don't always see things right away, but sometimes that's because of the defenses in place, not because I'm shallow and not paying attention. Chances are, if she asked me what was going on instead of told me, I'd have plenty of ideas about it. And I don't mind feedback, because sometimes people who can see less detail have a better grasp on the big picture. I'm more than happy to listen to considered, measured insights - right or wrong - in the right context. But I think she's just trying to take my inventory without really knowing what's in stock, and as it stands, I don't feel like I can disagree with her, lest she decide I'm just being obstinate and defensive. So I shut up, stay defended, and take it. Which, let's face it, is not helpful.

And, let's face it, is a common response that I have, which has gotten me in a world of trouble before.

::sigh:: I just want to be normal, Spud.