'so let's play doctor baby, cure my disease'

So remember that time I told you about what a whiny little weenie I can be sometimes?

(Only awww, yeah, baby, I'm no little weenie! Uh uh. I rock the big ween, y'all!)

Well, join me now as I share with you another aspect of my personality that will serve to both titillate and dismay, leaving you disoriented, yet oddly intrigued about how I'm wired.

Let us begin our journey approximately one week ago, when, after I disgraced my hard working ancestors and sullied the good name of my family by complaining about how hot I was just laying in bed doing absolutely nothing because I couldn't see nor bear to endure an 80 degree night without the comforts of a ceiling fan, I gave thanks to Jesus and science when the power was triumphantly restored within 30 minutes. Approximately 12 minutes later, I decided it would be fun to start complaining about how sore my left hip and upper back was.

I find it amusing to bring the conversation back to me anytime an uncomfortable silence falls over the crowd, or my husband is trying to fall asleep. That's a bonus personality tidbit!

The complaints about my hip and back pain aren't new. In fact, it's been ongoing for about two months, and they are sometimes accompanied by tears. I would like to say it's the result of afternoons spent roundhouse kicking predators during secret ninja warfare, but I believe the primary culprit lies with several consecutive hours (days) spent dancing. Although I thought I was strong enough to suffer for my art, Dance Dance Revolution is an unforgiving lover, my friends, and art has been all "Tap, tap, tap. Hi! Remember that time we reminded you you weren't exactly a child anymore, and that we'd prove it to you by smiting your body with pain the likes of which made childbirth feel like a breeze? Well, we're here now. Scoot over. Oh! Ha ha! You can't scoot over 'cause your hip hurts really, really bad. Ain't that just a bitch."

Anyway, rewind. I'm complaining. Here's a smidgen of what my Tool Man put up with that night:

"This hurts so bad. I can't move. It feels like there's a creature inside of me trying to work itself out. Now it's in my shoulder, too. Please roll me over and see if you can spy a creature's head attempting to burst through my flesh. Do you think it's possible to die from this? Perhaps by a pillow placed over my face to quiet my tears and whoops! Stopping my breathing? Two months! Two months this has gone on! The heat didn't kill me, but I think this will. Donate my body to science so this malady can be cured. Do you think I should see a doctor? I should see a doctor. What kind of doctor should I see? What in the world do I tell a doctor!? Waaa...waaa....waaa...waaa."

In a shocking twist that must proves gender is a mystery never to be unlocked, my moaning and groaning didn't dampen the Tool Man's crazy lust for me! Turned on by my incessant whining, and satisfied that my core body temperature had dropped thanks to the return of electricity, my lovely rolled over slowly, so as not to disturb my geriatric hip, and gave me the patented sex move.

...sigh...the wiggly eyebrows get me every time...

"Be gentle," I said, sounding much like he did the very first time we ever had sex.

Waaa...waaa...waaa. Time passed. More time passed. A little bit later, I thought, "When did Cirque de Soleil come to town, (and will that creepy looking clown give me nightmares)?" and my hip and I eventually begged for mercy.

The next morning, I awaken and do as I've done every morning for the past two months, which was to approach the task of getting out of bed gingerly, afraid to rouse the beast within my back. However, upon gently swinging my legs around and toward the ground, I felt no pain. Assuming I must be dreaming, I bounced off the mattress and hit the floor at full stride, only to find that my hip had, indeed, been granted mercy.

I almost did a dance, but knowing the dance is my enemy,(but beware, dance, for I will claim you again!) I refrained. Instead, I tested myself on the stairs and found I could glide down them like I was atop a cloud. "I'm cured! I'm cured!" I yelled, and rushed into the Tool Man's arms, showering him with love for whatever miracle elixir he'd sold me just a few hours prior.

Nearly a week later, I'm still virtually pain free, and have been making regular appointments with the Tool Man for (say it with me now, then groan really loudly) refills on my prescription. Oh, yeah! Surely this is one for the medical journals!

So, you've gotten this far and are probably saying, "Yeah! You got some! Even with the image of a creepy clown in your mind, you got some! Good for you! Oh, and you're pretty much pain free now, freeing you to dance and do whatnot (wink, wink). Kudos! But what were we supposed to learn about you upon reading all your words? And why do I not use the word 'kudos' more often?"

Add the fact that I am unashamedly cheap to the list. During my check ups with Dr. Feelgood, I've often thought, "Think of the copay I'm saving, baby!"