Let’s Talk About My Glands Now

A few years ago, Al Pal and I got engaged. Oh, have I mentioned this casually five or six hundred times? My bad. Won’t happen again. (HAHA YES IT WILL.)

I immediately started freaking out about my weight and my dress and all that dumb lady stuff. And of course since this is America and I’m a woman, everyone told me that’s exactly what I should be doing. Not in so many words, but with quinoa and Facebook yoga posts. (Seriously. I’m never coming to yoga. Stop.)

When Al Pal and I met, I was a hot young thing that could climb big hills and still breathe real good. Since then, things have changed. We sit on the couch watching and eating all the things, and it has taken its toll, slowly and insidiously.

Not on him of course. Pizza twice a day and still wearing his tiny pants like a smug fuck.

So I tried diets, and then other diets, and then other diets. Jokes on me, none of them worked. Al Pal was always supportive, but it’s pretty discouraging to be forever dieting and forever fat. So I finally sucked it up and went to the doctor two weeks before our wedding. We had the following exchange:

Doctor: “Can you poop?”
Me: “No!”

Doctor: “Are you cold all the time?”
Me: “Yes!”

Doctor: “Do you lose a lot of hair in the shower?”
Me: “Yes!”

Doctor: “Do you have dry skin?”
Me: “Yes!”

Doctor: “Can you pay attention to things?”
Me: “No!”

Doctor: “You totally have low thyroid!”
Me: “Essplain?”
Doctor: “Your body is like a bear going into hibernation.”

Note to medical professionals and the population at large: This is not the ideal thing to say to a lady MERE DAYS before she’s walking down the aisle.

Doctor: “Take this medicine!”
Me: “Yay! Wedding is saved!”
Doctor: “Actually, it won’t kick in for 3-4 months.”

Cool, thanks Doc. The Gland: 1 Wedding: 0

But by mid-November, lo and behold, I felt fabulous. I dropped 30lbs, started reading books again, and got a second job, because that’s just something people go do. I’ve looked into going back to school. I make the bed. I bought a mortar and pestle.

Okay, no longer under the evil mind/poop controlling power of the Gland. Step one is complete. Step two, figure out how the hell to deal with The Gland going forward.

Apparently thyroid medication is like birth control in that if you don’t take it, it will FUCK YOU UP. I only learned that after missing several days in Italy and feeling reeeeeeeeeal weird.

I also discovered that this is a pretty common Lady Problem and that many of my friends endure similar torment at the hands of The Gland. (Yes, we’ve gone anthropomorphic. Deal with it.) So we had some excellent Lady Talks and now I have lots of Lady Advice about Lady Problems and how to keep The Gland from taking control of my poops again.

Number one: Take your damn medication.

Number two: The Gland is not the boss of you, you are the boss of The Gland.

So I need to go in every year or so to make sure The Gland has not become the boss again. At the moment, I’m cautiously optimistic of our relationship. I (mostly) take my medication, it (mostly) lets me poop. I think this means I’m still in charge. For now.

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