I’m so elite. I’m basically one of those ladies who lunch. I mean, the other day, I had to get up early to see my personal trainer* and masseuse**, and afterward, I grabbed a delightful meal full of berries***. I then had just a couple of hours to get ready to have a little work done — just a little injection to help my smile along*** — you know how it is.

Except:

*personal trainer = physical therapist, and my sessions don’t so much include the latest yoga and Pilates techniques as me laying on a table in front of 15 people ranging in age from 80 to 106 and lifting two-pound dumbbells while doing super sexy chin tucks.

**masseuse = massage therapist who has been working on my pterygoid from INSIDE MY MOUTH. I mean, I’m pretty sure you can share state secrets with me now. If I’m going to actually pay money to have that sort of torture done to me, I can withstand whatever some dummy in a mask can throw my way.

***meal full of berries = smoothie from the cafe at the gym because pretty much the fanciest meal I have these days is a smoothie that I don’t have to clean up after. Seriously.

**** little injection to help my smile along = injection of steroids into that pesky pterygoid muscle to, I don’t know, make it stop trying to kill me? Except, as it turns out, shooting it up with stuff actually angers it for a few days. WHO KNEW. So instead of the relief I had looked forward to (and oh, I looked forward to it), I’m now wincing at just the thought of trying to get my toothbrush into my mouth all the way.

Yeah. TMJ can suck it.

I know, I know, it will get better — and don’t worry. I’m doing All The Things in order to get there, and I’m mostly staying pretty damn positive. Trust me. Just needed to vent for a moment, you know? You know. I know you know.

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