A friend and co-worker asked me this afternoon if I felt as bad as I looked. What, I ask you, are you supposed to say to a question like that? The truth is, I don’t feel well, but I wasn’t aware I was sporting the death-warmed-over look today. Sure, my hair is getting a little shaggy on top thanks to its superhuman growth rate, compliments of prenatal vitamins. And yes, there is that giant zit on my cheek that refuses to be concealed. But I didn’t skulk from the house this morning thinking, “God, I wish I had a Scream mask.” Her concern for my health and well-being was lost in my reaction to her observation of my appearance. It’s hard to say, “Yeah, thanks for asking. I’m feeling sort of droopy,” when all you can think is, “Uh! That’s so mean. What do you mean I look bad?” I’m going home to my animals, who are happy to see me even first thing in the morning when I appear to have been electrocuted during the night, and to my Reece’s Egg-Pumpkin, because chocolate does not discriminate.