Finding fulfillment while keeping your scarf on

I put on a scarf and went out on the town last night for the first time since my surgery, to Arlington Diocese Theology on Tap, no doubt overexerting myself but having a great time enjoying the lecture, fellowship, and chicken tenders.

As I told my friend Mary-Rose about how I've been doing since my operation and the news that I'll require more treatment, I found myself actually joking with her about it.

"I was always a hypochondriac ..." I began, which is absolutely true. I'm a germophobe as well. A co-worker at the New York Daily News once bought me a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of sheer annoyance. He said it was for me to use to disinfect my desk, because I kept complaining that another co-worker, who was coughing, was too sick to be on the job. The only reason I don't use those portable sanitizing gels that other germophobic city dwellers swear by is that I'm afraid they'll make the already dry skin on my hands peel, and then I might catch more germs through open cuts.

Anyway, I continued to Mary-Rose, "... so now it's great, because I finally really have something to complain about.

"And it's the best of both worlds," I added, "because after getting to complain for a while, I get completely cured."

Except that I am actually in such good spirits thanks to all the prayers and good wishes I've received that, save for the stitches in my throat — which make me feel a bit like the mythical girl with the black velvet ribbon — I truly have nothing to complain about.