Being Super Human

Being Super Human

Sometimes, and this is often (but by no means exclusively) when I’m in the bathroom, scrabbling around in my own, ‘dirt’ trying to find a mucus-y bit for the sample pot, because the doctor told me the nasty beasties like to live there the most, I have this strange but compelling fantasy.

The whole medical establishment become fascinated with me and my seemingly super human ways.

“She cannot absorb vitamin xcy64? And has stayed around the 20 stones weight all her life?

She’s a miracle! 

No one else with this rare yet fascinating condition has weighed in at less than 40 – and that’s just the toddlers! – when this deficiency is usually picked up ”

“And is it a wonder she sometimes yells at her kids, (they can, to be fair be extremely disrespectful) most people with this rare yet fascinating condition are locked up in maximum security prisons, her mood,  disposition - well let’s just call it general ‘goodness’ until we find a new and better word for it, is astounding!”

“She holds down a job you say? Actually good at it sometimes? Moments of remarkable achievements? Wow, she is incredible; this condition barely allows people to shower and do their own laundry on time... just imagine what she’ll do with when we give her this highly effective treatment that of course has no side effects!”

“She manages to put down her phone occasionally to answers her children? What will power she must have! – a failure to absorb vitamin xcy64 always leads to addition to technology and difficulties in social communication! What you say she has friends, many friends? Wow! I need to study her further – whatever her body produces to combat this, well, it could be the key to developing the super human race we have all dreamed of!”

They will flock to my bedside and I will finally understand why I have never been stumbling around life failing, the bar was set too high, it was no wonder I could never get there on time, remember things, clean the inside of my oven or iron. 

It made so much sense why I fell asleep on the sofa at 7pm, always gave up on exercise and filled my face with refined sugar – I was defective but now, sweet miracle, now I could be fixed! 

And as the handsome specialist consultant who flew in from San Diego (he didn’t mind he loves to travel) timidly asks,

“Ms? So does that mean...”

“Sorry,” I sigh, “I’m happily married to a pretty good guy – but how tall are you?”

“6’2...”

“Good!” I say, “I think I can help both you and your colleague there, with the Jon Snow eyes!”

But then I’m back in the bathroom staring at what my body did to yesterdays food caught on a ‘home bargains’ bag, lamenting that for the first time in months the pile is mucus free and I remain, as I am with no excuse for the half-hearted way I live my life...