Monday, June 21, 2010

The Twitching Tush

(The Sick Girl, Felix Vallotton, 1892,

Something utterly ridiculous has happened.

Here we are - just six days until we depart for our Scandinavian Grand Adventure and I am sure that I have broken my tush.

As you might well imagine, this has occurred at the least desirable moment.

I am lumbering around on both feet but I have posterior pain the likes of which I have never experienced.

You may (or may not) be asking yourselves, "How on earth did this happen?"

Detective that I am, I believe I have tracked down the cause quite quickly.

It all started last year when Bob the Builder and I were finishing the interior of our new house.

Because I've always been allergic to work - thankfully, no one has found a cure for this ailment to date - I offer to paint walls when "reno" time pops up.

Last year, while rolling our 178 walls with "caramel sandstone," something else popped as well.

More correctly, something "popped out."

As a result, I sat in a chair with a heating pad on my left posterior - um, cheek - for three solid days praying for a speedy death.

Yes, I should have gone to the doctor.

But since I happen to be allergic to physicians as well, I decided to tough it out.

Things improved quickly and I returned to my normal snappy self before I could say the word "phobias."

Then a few months ago, I began having pain down my left thigh.

This felt a lot like the pain I experienced when I was expecting one of our children.

Fortunately for that particular offspring, I do not remember which child it was that decided to do bodily harm to his or her saintly mother.

If I remember correctly - and believe me, I do - that searing pain was directly related to my sciatic nerve.

My son-in-law, John, who is no stranger to back pain himself, informed me last evening that my broken tush is most likely related to spinal/vertebrae problems.

Something to do with shifty movement between the "lumbar # 4 and 5 discs."

This time the pain is traveling right down the middle of my left "cheek."

That pain is, in his opinion, related to my sciatic nerve as well.

Who am I to argue with a fellow sufferer?

I absolutely believe he is on to something.

I have spent the last two months working on two huge projects:

Bob the Trudge Master and I have been physically training for all the walking we will be doing in Europe. This means that we have been out the door and walking around our neighborhood for 30 minutes every morning at or around 6 a.m. As a result of this monumental effort, I now have calves that could walk from our house to Anchorage, Alaska and back again within the space of 35 minutes!

I have been sitting and writing, sitting and writing, and sitting and writing some more for many, many weeks. I have been working on several " Merry Scribe" projects - this blog being one of them.

Fast forward to last Friday.

I got up from a writing blitz, took a few steps and instantly began hobbling in pain.

I glanced back at the reproduction "Italian Renaissance" desk chair that I adore for it's unique design and Michelangelo-esque tapestry seat cover.

My delicate posterior regions have been practically glued to this chair for hours at a time as I have drafted page after page of the finest writing the world will ever see.


I fully intend to hack that torture device into toothpick size splinters and then torch it's slivery remains into oblivion.

Which brings me to the following happy circumstance.

I am receiving a one hour massage this very afternoon by an expert therapist who comes highly recommended by one of my dearest friends on the planet.

When I made the appointment to see the therapist - just one week ago - I had no idea that I would need her services so desperately.

I firmly believe that God works in mysterious ways.

Mysterious to us, by the way, never to Him.

Who knows how all of this is going to turn out?

I'm praying that I will be as fit as a fiddle and ready to speed walk all over Erik the Red's Scandinavian turf.

Or perhaps Bob The Annoyed will be pushing me around Copenhagen in a wheel chair - eventually dumping me into the city's fair harbor when he's had more than enough of my petulant whining.

I seriously suspect that something smack dab in the middle of those two possibilities may well occur.

We shall see.

I see the clock is tick, tick, ticking away.

I'm going to force myself to stand up now and drag my aching tush to the shower.

I've got an appointment with an angel of mercy and absolutely nothing is going to prevent me from keeping it.

Bottoms up!

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