Monday, November 13, 2006
Is there a doctor in the house?
I'm beginning to think journalism is bad for my health.Seriously, in the last few weeks, I've been having what I'm deeming to be major health problems that I believe all stem from my job:
Headaches - I don't know if it's from staring at the computer screen all day or from reading copy so much, but I've been having these mind numbing headaches about 4 times a week, sometimes twice in a day. It may also have something to do with the crazy people in my coverage area.
Fatigue - Election night was it. It started off slow, but it was the culmination of weeks of overtime and stress. Now, here, a week later, I'm still feeling the effects of the lack of sleep. I find myself wanting to take naps in the middle of the day while I'm at work.
Sleeplessness - By the same token, some nights, I've been unable to go to sleep. Maybe I'm too tired. Maybe I'm too hyped from deadline. Whatever it is, I know it's messing with my equilibrium - I'm all out of wack.
Phantom Pains - I had a horrible pain in the meaty part of my thumb the other day from typing at an odd angle. It made me think I was getting carpal tunnel syndrome from these horribly designed desks.
And to top it all off, my glasses broke on Friday.
It has not been a good week.
I feel like the adult thing to do would be to go to the doctor and get checked out. I know I don't have the flu, but something is going awry with me and whatever it is, my job is just exacerbating it.
I hate going to the doctor's office. Guess I'll have to suck it up and go before work tomorrow.
*Sigh*
Good news, though.
My job may be physically breaking me down bit by bit, it does provide some moments of comedy. Just a second ago, one of my co-workers, a particularly hyper young man, came over to me to find out what I'd eaten for lunch. Earlier, we'd had a heated debate about why I shouldn't go to Panera Bread and instead, he argued, should patronize local deli shops. Now, he insisted on guessing what my sandwich was.
He proceeded to close his eyes, sniff my sandwich (it was double wrapped in parchment paper, so no chance of bacteria from him) and call out ingredients.
*sniff*
"Onions."
*sniff*
"Cheese."
*sniff*
"Pickles?"
"Yeah, you couldn't have gotten this sandwich at Mark's Deli," he said, reaching out his fist to give me 'pound,' his preferred method of salutation.
If the job alone doesn't kill me, my co-workers will ensure I die laughing.
continue...
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