On Going Deaf, or How He Kept the Weight Off; *PLUS*, two people who make hearing a joy

I woke up this morning with a decidedly unpleasant feeling of disequilibrium in my head, a combination of pressure and a sort of heavy, whooshing wind sound. A little bit like the morning after dancing directly next to the speakers at one of those discotheques the youngsters favor, but without the buzzing or self-chastisement.

So I spent the whole day feeling like my head was in a metal box, and I went to Employee Health and they said it wasn't an ear infection, just probably some allergy-related fluid. But, of course, because I spent yesterday swimming underwater at Jones Beach, and because I am a hypochondriac, I am convinced it's a cluster of sea lice eggs, or a burst ear drum from getting hit in the head too hard by a wave, or some sort of salt-water-borne flesh-eating virus.

And it's only getting worse, which I just noticed when I was on the phone with Miriam and could barely hear her, and then when I put my ear on my pillow (I like to recline while on the phone) it sounded like there was a lawn mower under my bed, but...it's all in my head. Is this what crazy people feel like? Am I going to wake up deaf in the morning?

The P.A. at Employee Health also told me my thyroid felt enlarged, and sent me for some bloodwork. I'm somewhat ambivalent about this, as I seem to have slimmed down quite nicely and unexpectedly/undeservedly lately, and I would hate for thyroid regulation to take this away from me. Of course, a thyroid problem could also explain why I've been more depressed lately, and treating a potential irregularity could save me from developing a goiter or something worse just in time for my wedding.

All in all, a toss-up. Right now, if I had to choose between getting rid of this screaming head trauma and having to find a suit loose enough to cover my goiter but tight enough to conform to my deliciously thyroid-thin figure, I'd have to go with Door #1.

In other news, I feel compelled to share two musicians who have been like my new best friends over the past week, helping to ease Kelly Clarkson's burden as primary caregiver as well as providing me with a respite from the screaming voices inside and outside my head.

The first is Antony, of Antony and the Johnsons. Creepily eerie, yet beautifully soothing.

The second is Annie. Perfect afternoon-commute sidewalk-supermodel material.