Y'all Won't Believe This

I have to tell y'all that the whole accountability thing is not working out so far. I thought I had set realistic goals yesterday, but not one thing on my radically scaled back list got done.
I did not, in fact, decide what I would wear to church on Sunday, as I remembered that due to having come down with a case of insanity, we (my wonderful but, alas, crazy husband, Jim, and me) have tickets to take a herd of toddlers to see Dora the Explorer live at the Peace Center on Sunday morning. Now I know what you're thinking, and, normally, I would never do something like this on Sunday morning, it being the Lord's day and all, but we had promised said toddlers, and we couldn't go on Saturday due to a prior commitment. I will definitely go next Sunday. Tomorrow I will decide what to wear.
I didn't make it to Jazzercise yesterday, and I didn't get a single word written except for my blog post, but I have an excellent reason (not an excuse, a reason!). Here's what happened. I was getting dressed, and my hand brushed against my aforementioned large derriere and I felt something scratchy. I twisted myself into a pretzel to examine the offending patch of skin, and to my horror, I found a black, odd shaped, crusty looking, very scary mole. Now, I am very fair-skinned, and have to be vigilant about my moles. When I was a teenager I baked my milky white skin to a fire engine red on many occasions, so as an adult I see a dermatologist regularly. Well, the first thing I did was call him up. His receptionist informed my that the first thing they had was in April and I said no siree, I am about to hyperventilate, and this thing has got to be looked at lickety-split. I finally convinced her to work me in, and then do you know what she said to me? She said, "You do know that we moved to Powdersville, right?" And I said, "Good grief, no, when did that happen?" She said, "Two months ago." Now you would think, that since I have been seeing this man at least once a month for fifteen years, he would have the courtesy to drop me a card to let me know that he was leaving town. But noooo. I only have a vague idea where Powdersville is, and trying to locate a dermatologist's office in a strange city was not something I felt up to due to my traumatic state. I said, "No thank you, I will find myself a new doctor in Greenville." This is not as easy as one might imagine. I called three or four dermatologists who were not accepting new patients. Period. Then I found one who would see me in October, and another who would only work me in after I had seen my primary care physician and he called and told them it was medically necessary. I was beside myself. Our family doctor couldn't see me until Tuesday, and let me tell you, I would have worried myself slap to death before then, making the whole mole thing a moot point. Finally, I found a dermatologist who had a cancellation and could see me at three yesterday afternoon. His office was over near Greenville Hospital, back in that medical park across Faris Road? I like to never have found it--that place is like a maze. Anyway, I ran in there right at three, and had to do a pile of new patient paperwork detailing my medical history, family history (don't get me started on that) insurance and current complaint. I had to put down the location of my problem. Trying to be delicate, I wrote, "Right behind." After I finished filling out more forms than when we applied for a mortgage, they took me through another labyrinth to exam room #13. Of course. Then this nurse came in and went over the paperwork I had just filled out. It is no wonder healthcare costs so much in this country. They have to have people to direct you to fill out the paperwork, people to put all that garbage in the computer, and other people to go over it with you, all before you lay eyes on a doctor. Finally, here he came. He was a very distinguished looking man of somewhere past sixty. He read over the forms--the ones the nurse had just gone over with me, and he got this strange squinty look on his face. He looked up at me and said, "Right behind what?" AHHHH!!! I explained where the mole was located, then the nurse had to come back in because of that rule they have that you can't take your clothes off in front of a male doctor unless another female is in the room. So I showed them my mole. By this time, I was beside myself with fear. I just knew I had the bad kind of mole. The really, really bad kind. My right leg was tingling, and felt numb. I wanted him to laser that thing right off and send it to the lab pronto. I was already dreading having to wait for the test results. Do you know what he said? He said, "It looks like you've scratched yourself and it's scabbed over." I couldn't believe it. I said, "You mean it's not a mole?" He said, "No, it's not a mole. It's a scratch." Well, I was so relieved, I didn't even mind how like an idiot I felt. Have I mentioned I have a tendency to hypochondria?
So, I spent the whole day wrapped up in my non-mole crisis. By the time I got out of there, it was after 4, and I hadn't eaten all day. I was famished, and not in the mood to hunt up something healthy. I went straight to the L'il Rebel and got myself a chicken salad club, which is this wonderful chicken salad sandwich with cheese, bacon, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise. I got it on whole wheat bread.
Yesterday was a bust, and today wasn't much better. The day started with water leaking out of the ice maker on the front of my 6 month old Kitchen Aid refrigerator. Everything in it had defrosted. Long story short, the service guy who came out said that he's pretty sure someone left the freezer open last night because it's working fine now. Between people dropping by and the phone ringing, the rest of the day wasn't much more productive than yesterday, but I did get to Jazzercise. I wasn't feeling well--I almost didn't go. I've been feeling like I have to concentrate to breathe--like I can't get enough air in my lungs. I started not to go, then I figured if I passed out at home, I'd be by myself. If I passed out at Jazzercise, at least somebody would be around to call 911. So I went, and I didn't pass out. Actually, I felt much better after class, except that I had this powerful craving for a Dairy Queen Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte and some fries. It's the whole sweet and salty thing--I just can't resist it. I had a cheeseburger to round out the meal.
As I said, the whole accountability thing isn't working so great thus far. But I have high hopes for tomorrow. Just so you know, I don't Jazzercise on the weekends, and I usually don't write either, so tomorrow should be a snap--it's the weekend!! Whoo-hoo!!!

In The Beginning

So, last night halfway through Jazzercise, when Casey was holding forth about accountability and trying to sign us all up for 'Personal Touch' (which I absolutely cannot afford at my current rate of pay as an unpublished writer), I decided to create a blog. I figure, I can be accountable to my blog for free. And there are so many things I need to be held accountable for, not just exercise, although that is a biggie. When I started pondering the list of things I felt like I should do (and be held accountable for), I had a panic attack, so decided to pick the three biggies: making church on a regular basis, getting my oversized derriere to Jazzercise and writing every day.
I'm not an experienced blogger. I've read through one or two, but this is new to me and I'm learning as I go. If anyone actually reads this stuff, please be patient with me (and help hold me accountable). For the record, my name is Susan Boyer. I am of legal age, and that's all I care to say about that. In the interest of fairness, I have to tell you that I have a long way to go to become a skinny anything. I am 5' 7" inches tall and weigh...wait a minute...I'll go get on the scale right now...NOT. I am overweight, okay, let's just leave it at that until we get to know each other better. Two years ago, the company I worked for for eleven years went belly-up, and I decided that if I was ever going to be a writer, it was now...then...whatever, I'm still working on it. I write most days, but some days I get distracted, going off on tangents researching this or that literary agent, conference or contest. Those are important things if one ever wants to get published, but some days I spend too much time surfing the internet and not enough writing.
Today is Thursday, and I will write for at least four hours, go to Jazzercise, eat healthy and plan what I'm going to wear to church on Sunday so as to have one less excuse. Peace, out...