Two months from my fortieth birthday, I’ve never looked or felt better.

Considering my high school and college years, this is pretty remarkable. I used to scare people with oversized T-shirts, an abrasive attitude, and hair that could withstand fifty-knot winds.

But now, after discovering exercise, obtaining a decent wardrobe allowance and growing my hair down instead of out, I’ve finally become a bit of a babe.

So naturally something’s wrong.

Recently, I faced my first abnormal pap smear. Last Monday, I dealt with the indignity of a colposcopy without cocktails.

Then, after several days of worrying and revising my eulogy, I got a call from my gynecologist’s medical assistant. She said no signs of cancerous cells can be seen up in my lovely.

“The results are essentially negative.”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Essentially negative?” I said. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You should come back in six months just to be sure.”

I don’t want to go all Woody Allen on you, but when did we stop getting a clean bill of health from our physicians? Somewhere in my thirties, the need to clarify began.

“You tested negative for lupus, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have it.”

Essentially.

I’m not yet forty and can’t remember the last time my doctor handed me a lollipop and cheerfully remarked, “With that rack, a winning smile and impressive central nervous system, you’re gonna live forever!”

I’m not sure whether it’s the sight of my spider veins, argumentative streak, or general malpractice concerns that trigger such pessimism in medical peeps. I know I’m getting older, but if a test comes back benign, what’s the harm in shaking your groove thing and celebrating a little?

Essentially.

As if on cue, I hung up and the phone rang again.

My primary care physician called to talk about lab results.

“I’ve got to stop scheduling these check-ups back-to-back,” I said. “You guys are killing me.”

Turns out I have something called hypothyroidism.

“That sounds familiar,” I said.

“Family history?” she asked.

“Probably.” I cursed all my female relatives, dead or alive. “Ass to ears, I’m getting everything those broads got in their sixties and seventies!”

My primary care physician didn’t know what to do with that information.

I mulled for a moment.

I’m a muller.

“So macular degeneration and congestive heart failure is next.” I sighed. “Blind as a bat and trying to pull a thong over adult diapers is not how I envisioned my forties.”

Perhaps I’m being over-dramatic. After a bit of research, I discovered I exhibit none of the symptoms related to hypothyroidism. Most patients are:

• Overweight
• Lethargic
• Physically weak

I got the same rear-end I had in junior high, can keep up with two nine year-old boys without using stimulants and regularly open jars of pickles on my own.

• Depression
• Irritability
• Mood swings

These are my favorite character traits. What mother isn’t irritable? Unpredictable mood swings keep those kids in line.

• Absentmindedness

Okay…yesterday I put tampons in the pantry and croutons under the bathroom sink.

• Decreased libido

Double gulp.

In my defense, I’ve been preoccupied with a deteriorating cervix. Did my husband write this list?

Doc recommended a medication: Synthroid. If the magic pills work, Synthroid and I will be together the rest of my life.

Not one to jump into any serious commitment, I scheduled another blood test and consult with a respected dietitian. My doctor sighed.

“A faulty thyroid can lead to all kinds of heart and sight disorders.”

“Hey!” I shouted. “Call the guys I dated in college. Pressuring me will get you nowhere.”

As always, I felt better after talking with friends. Essentially. But what happened to us? My girls and I used to discuss hot men, tongue kissing, and Bon Jovi. Now we’re wondering which meds can be taken with wine.

In other words, we’re all a mess.

Maybe it comes with age.

Therefore, as long as I can continue to wear a thong and open a jar of pickles, I will shake my groove thing and celebrate a little.

Essentially.

Bio: Catherine Durkin Robinson gave up her career in Boston as a corporate trainer, political activist and rabble-rouser to return to Tampa to stay at home with identical twin sons. Trapped in the suburbs, surrounded by Weber grills and confederate flags, she decided to launch her freelance writing career and explore all that is fun and frustrating about progressive parenting. Not easily defined, she’s a feminist who’s had cosmetic surgery, a wife who has never been domestically inclined, and a mommy who doesn’t particularly like kids. In her spare time, she investigates missing socks.