Insult and Injury
Last Friday evening, I went out for a friend's birthday. We went to what used to be the regular watering hole and an entire cast of characters showed up. The guy with the wife nobody likes. The other guy with the wife nobody likes. The AeroMed pilot. The blonde with the fake boob inserts who pulls them out at bars, thereby defeating the purpose. The undercover vice officer.
Wait, was he with our party, or just there?
Anyway, it was a good group of people. And we added more as other people left. It was fun. A fun night that I needed and that I hadn't had in a good long while. When you hang out with the same people all the time, you tend to get stagnant. These folks were more of a breath of fresh air. Tinged with Miller products.
So I hang. And hang and hang and hang. And drink beer and then water. Eventually, there are only a few of us left. I get pulled out the door, since everyone else is leaving and they want to make sure I can get into my car, since I chose to wear very practical cork high heels in the driving snow. Kind of them, I know. But I get dragged directly out of the bar. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.
And, most importantly, do not go to the bathroom.
I live...oh, about twenty minutes away. About five minutes into the drive, I started doing the dance. You know the dance. The dance four-year-old girls do when they have to pee and they don't want to tell their mothers because they might miss the last five minutes of the Don Ho show.
Not that I watched Don Ho or anything.
Doing the dance while driving on the highway going 75 is not the easiest thing to do. Especially when it has been snowing and I drive a stick. But that doesn't stop me. I'm dancing. I'm hopping. I'm sqeezing. I'm trying not to think about running water.
I finally pull in my driveway. And proceed to drop my purse in the snow, dumping all of the contents on the ground. At this point, I'm in stocking feet, having wisely chosen to take off the cork-heeled red shoes. And I'm hopping around, in the snow, looking for the keys, almost crying because I have so much liquid in my body that it is forcing its way out of every pore.
I find the key, let myself into the house, sprint up the stairs and into the bathroom. Where I take a moment...or five...alone.
In my haste to get to the bathroom and as an indication of the desperat nature of my plight, I wasn't satisfied with just dropping trou. No, I apparently thought it was a good idea to just take them off. Forgetting, of course, that I still had to go back outside and gather up the tattered remnants of my life scattered across the driveway.
So I bundle up in my coat, basically naked from the waist down, as I was too lazy to get dressed by then, and picked up random lipsticks, pieces of gum, pennies, business cards, and every other piece of detrius I've managed to gather over the past year. All of which had become rather cold and wet from sitting in the snow for the...lengthy amount of time it took me to relieve myself inside. I really, really hope that my neighbors weren't home to see that display. The cops didn't show up, so I think I'm safe. For now.
Over the weekend, I'd pretty much convinced myself that I was suffering from a bladder infection. I hurt. It wasn't right. And it couldn't just be from holding it in for so long, could it? I went on WebMD and convinced myself that, if it wasn't a bladder infection, then it was undoubtedly cancer. Then my friend sent me a link to some other weird cystitis thing, which is incurable but can be relieved by...stretching? Really? And isn't that a little...invasive? Really?
I even went so far as to see my doctor. I've had a bladder infection. And I had the same, wonderful, shooting, stabbing pains that are so very fun to endure. But no. No infection.
Since then, I've gotten better. I'm not afraid to drink a glass of water now. And my confidence in my doctor has been restored. I believe that I don't have an infection, that it must have been something else and I'll, someday, return to normal.
Obviously, the stretching must have done the trick.
Wait, was he with our party, or just there?
Anyway, it was a good group of people. And we added more as other people left. It was fun. A fun night that I needed and that I hadn't had in a good long while. When you hang out with the same people all the time, you tend to get stagnant. These folks were more of a breath of fresh air. Tinged with Miller products.
So I hang. And hang and hang and hang. And drink beer and then water. Eventually, there are only a few of us left. I get pulled out the door, since everyone else is leaving and they want to make sure I can get into my car, since I chose to wear very practical cork high heels in the driving snow. Kind of them, I know. But I get dragged directly out of the bar. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.
And, most importantly, do not go to the bathroom.
I live...oh, about twenty minutes away. About five minutes into the drive, I started doing the dance. You know the dance. The dance four-year-old girls do when they have to pee and they don't want to tell their mothers because they might miss the last five minutes of the Don Ho show.
Not that I watched Don Ho or anything.
Doing the dance while driving on the highway going 75 is not the easiest thing to do. Especially when it has been snowing and I drive a stick. But that doesn't stop me. I'm dancing. I'm hopping. I'm sqeezing. I'm trying not to think about running water.
I finally pull in my driveway. And proceed to drop my purse in the snow, dumping all of the contents on the ground. At this point, I'm in stocking feet, having wisely chosen to take off the cork-heeled red shoes. And I'm hopping around, in the snow, looking for the keys, almost crying because I have so much liquid in my body that it is forcing its way out of every pore.
I find the key, let myself into the house, sprint up the stairs and into the bathroom. Where I take a moment...or five...alone.
In my haste to get to the bathroom and as an indication of the desperat nature of my plight, I wasn't satisfied with just dropping trou. No, I apparently thought it was a good idea to just take them off. Forgetting, of course, that I still had to go back outside and gather up the tattered remnants of my life scattered across the driveway.
So I bundle up in my coat, basically naked from the waist down, as I was too lazy to get dressed by then, and picked up random lipsticks, pieces of gum, pennies, business cards, and every other piece of detrius I've managed to gather over the past year. All of which had become rather cold and wet from sitting in the snow for the...lengthy amount of time it took me to relieve myself inside. I really, really hope that my neighbors weren't home to see that display. The cops didn't show up, so I think I'm safe. For now.
Over the weekend, I'd pretty much convinced myself that I was suffering from a bladder infection. I hurt. It wasn't right. And it couldn't just be from holding it in for so long, could it? I went on WebMD and convinced myself that, if it wasn't a bladder infection, then it was undoubtedly cancer. Then my friend sent me a link to some other weird cystitis thing, which is incurable but can be relieved by...stretching? Really? And isn't that a little...invasive? Really?
I even went so far as to see my doctor. I've had a bladder infection. And I had the same, wonderful, shooting, stabbing pains that are so very fun to endure. But no. No infection.
Since then, I've gotten better. I'm not afraid to drink a glass of water now. And my confidence in my doctor has been restored. I believe that I don't have an infection, that it must have been something else and I'll, someday, return to normal.
Obviously, the stretching must have done the trick.
posted by Miss Head at
1:09 PM
1 Comments:
Hello
We are just bimbling through some blogs, we alighted here and peeked.
So in a general show of manners we stopped to say "Hello and TTFN for now"
Cystitus, when its really bad, it's worse than labour - Beleive me!
By
Tinkerbell And Squidge, at 1:40 PM
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