It’s a weird stage of life when one hopes for blood tests to return a result indicating that something is wrong.

Well, nothing’s wrong. I don’t have any detectable tumor marker — which is awesome.

My thyroid hormones are right where they should be, which also should be awesome.

Except I don’t feel awesome. And thus my bundle of wacky symptoms appears to be something other than hypothyroidism. So now it’s off to investigate other possibilities (I have some alternate theories but since my first stab at self-diagnosis was an epic fail, I’ll just look into them quietly. . . ).

Or maybe I’m just neurasthenic in that grand 19th century tradition. Excuse me while I go write some romantic poetry and consider the intensity of a blade of grass.