It is true: I don’t do anything halfway. It is one of my most beloved clichés. I always bring it up in job interviews, for example – because when it comes to me it is the god-honest truth. I don’t see the point in not doing things properly. Do it properly or don’t even bother at all. You’d think this was a good trait, wouldn’t you?
Well, apparently, this also applies to being sick.
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Body image is a frail and fragile thing. In most areas of my life I am a (seemingly) sane and sensible person, but when it comes to the perception of my own physique I am pretty much all over the place. Let’s go through the basics. I am a tall, slim girl – 180 cm without shoes and in the lower but healthy regions on the BMI scale. Really – bodywise, I’ve got no complaints. Still, within a normal week, I will have gone from thinking I’ve got the body of a Hollywood A-lister to being convinced that I’ve gained 10 kilos in 15 minutes flat. Let me elaborate.
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Yesterday I went to the hospital to donate blood. I hadn’t done it in a while because of health reasons, but yesterday it was time to get back into the saddle. There’s something about donating blood that makes me feel like such a saint. My halo was there even when I got out of bed in the morning, and it only grew bigger as I made my way towards the hospital. I’m pretty sure it was visible from the moon by the time I actually got there.
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I was eight years old when my little sister was born. I was blown away when my parents told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister, and when she finally popped out I was beyond ecstatic. I was a big sister! I could teach her awesome things and help her with her homework and felt immensely grown-up. Now, I did all these things, but I also discovered that kid sisters weren’t awesome all the time. I would lend her my old Barbie dolls and she would cut off their hair. I’d have friends over and they would be more interested in seeing her than me, and as I grew chubbier, got terrible haircuts, had to wear braces and got hit with that awful tween awkwardness, she got proportionally cuter and blonder. No matter what I did, she would learn a new word or gargle or sing a song or bat her lashes and steal my thunder. I had been an only child for eight years, and this new situation was getting unbearable. I had to take matters into my own hands.
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Gather around, children, for it is time to tell the tale of the hair that grows on my nostril. “On your nostril you say? Surely you must mean in your nostril?” No I do not! Because I, my dear, have got a hair that grows on the outside of my left nostril. It is the purest white and can grow up to a centimeter long. Now, this is peculiar for two reasons:
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