Well, Daddy is worn out. I guess it’s “whatever is wrong with my body.” I’m trying to be patient. This morning I found out the referral my doctor sent to the “immunologist” has been received. I say “immunologist” because Google says he’s actually an “infectious disease specialist.” Personally, I don’t think this title instills calm in a patient. A paranoid patient like me, that is. All day I’ve been thinking, I probably have a rare African virus–something I caught from a mosquito. Go ahead and put me in quarantine. But back to the referral. “It’s on his desk,” the lady who answered the phone said. “It can take a few weeks for him to review, then his nurse should call you. Currently, we’re booked until March.” My shoulders caved in. I said, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.”

After I got off the phone, I realized a couple months really isn’t that long to wait for someone as smart as this guy is supposed to be. A relative recently waited six months to see a specialist, so March is better than July. Anyway, all I can do is see what happens, rest as much as possible until it does.

As part of the marketing job I’ve taken on recently for a large dance event, I’ve spent a lot of time this week on the phone, interviewing people about their experiences in the dance world. What works for you? What doesn’t work for you? What are you pissed off about? So far, this has been a fascinating journey. Everybody–everybody–has a story, and they’re usually willing to share it if someone will listen. That being said, it takes a lot of energy to listen, to let someone else unload their ups and downs on you. Plus, it’s not easy to stay focused, to stay present with someone else. More than once I’ve caught myself thinking about dinner and had to say, “Wait–could you back up?” Seriously, I’m convinced therapists earn every dollar of what they charge.

This evening I drove my aunt to get her hair cut, since I knew where we were going and she doesn’t like to drive at night. Well, first of all, she got a spunky new do. But then we went out to eat at Chili’s, and that’s where things really got interesting. “I ate there a while back, and my waiter was really cute and probably gay, she said. “So let’s go see what we can find out.” Y’all, this is my seventy-year-old aunt, trying to hook me up.

“Okay, I’m in,” I said. “Hell, even if he’s not there, I like their fried chicken.”

Well, whoever this fella was, wasn’t there. (Oh well.) But the fried chicken was. (Yippee!) Plus, another gay guy ended up being our waiter. (He was pretty cute, but kind of young.) My aunt said, “So you have a–what’s it called?–gay-dar?” I said, “Well, yeah. Some people show up on it more readily than others, but when a boy in Crawford County wears jeans that are tight from top to bottom and shimmies every time he sets an appetizer on the table, it’s not rocket science.”

After we each had a glass of wine, my aunt started flirting with our waiter. “This is my nephew–Marcus,” she said, holding her arms out toward me as if I were the prize on a game show. Like, Behind door number one is Marcus Coker, a middle-aged man from Van Buren, Arkansas, who still lives with his mom and dad! Anyway, then she proceeded to talk about her haircut, about how when you get older EVERYTHING starts to sag, so you have to keep your hairline shorter. “People look where your hairline stops,” she said as she pointed to the sides of her face. Our waiter said, “You do have nice apples.”

Later I had to explain to my aunt that apples were cheekbones. She said, “OH! I thought he was talking about my boobies.”

I’m seriously not making this up. (Welcome to my family.)

Now it’s almost eleven. I’ve been typing for just over an hour. And I don’t know if it’s how my body feels, the running around, the wine, or what. But I’m honestly done. Daddy is done. Earlier my nephew and I played this game where we buried each other in pillows. At one point I was all covered up, and he turned the lights off and said, “Good night.” I thought, Don’t tempt me–I could straight-up pass out this very instant. I guess when I don’t feel well I’m always thinking a day could be better than it was, better than it is. But the truth is, despite my low energy level, today was a great day. Maybe, just maybe, it was a great day because of my low energy level. I told my therapist recently that when I’m sick, I’m kinder to myself and the world around me–I’m a better listener–a better understand-er. Of course, I want this thing to go away. I believe it will. But I know it’s changing me and changing me for the better, so I can’t hate it. I don’t think you can hate anything that makes you love more.