I have girdles...

.... ummm, I have cinctures. No, wait, shingles, I have SHINGLES, that's it.
Distracted and misled by the dermatitis (that probably was from the coarse fibers in the sweater, and probably was exacerbated by the glucose syrup in the gingerbread,) I failed to notice how different this was from anything I'd had before until it was too late for anything but palliative care.

When you're used to your skin looking hideous and feeling awful, it tends to mask things like shingles.

And I have no idea if the shingles, or the antihistamines, or the exhaustion are to blame for my heightened emotions.

But sobbing at the sight of a woman with a repaired cleft palate on Extreme Make-overs, or because the Sanctus from the Gounod St Cecilia came on the radio, or at the big ears and sad eyes of a little actor on Cold Case, or at dwarves on TLC.... well, these are not the reactions of someone playing with a full deck.

On the other hand, learning that the burning, stabbing pain under my shoulder blade, when I had done nothing, when there was no visible symptom, no bump, no bruise, no rash, was not due to bone cancer or something dire.... well, that was delightful, and called for a nice Bavarian beer, with which to appropriately toast the object of my affections (shhh... don't tell my husband.)