I’m 13 going on 30 (Rough Estimate)

I’m having one of those weeks where I feel like a 40-year-old middle-aged man overburdened by his nagging wife, his mounting mortgage issues, and his rising cholesterol problems. You know, one of those King of Queens kind of weeks.

It all started last week when I made the huge mistake of checking my mailbox. I turned the key in the box as visions of edible and non-edible arrangements (I’m not too picky when it comes to my arrangements) danced through my mind.

I imagined opening an envelope stuffed with cash from a long-lost relative or maybe a signed photo of Whoopi Goldberg that I requested in 1994 or perhaps a quality chain letter that would give me 7 years of good luck and a husband by labor day if I photocopied it and sent it to everyone I knew.

But no.

It was a stack of bills with my name on it. (And to be fair an American Girl Doll magazine also with my name on it…some people drunk text, I drunk request catalogs, to each his own.)

It wasn’t even the normal bills like electric and cable. It was bills from doctors who I never met, yet who all claimed to be part of my appendectomy.

I know I was completely knocked out during the surgery, but I don’t understand how so many doctors were involved. I also don’t understand how my grandmother’s prediction that “one day doctors will be all over you” turned out to be so true and so misinterpreted all at the same time.

And the biggest one I got last week was for blood testing at a random blood lab in the NYC suburbs. Like no, I’m sorry, I’m not a vampire. There’s no need to ship my blood out to various blood factories anywhere within in a 30 mile radius of the hospital.

So now, instead of spending my valuable time watching Law & Order SVU reruns, I’m forced to call medical offices and find who touched me and why.

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