Sunday, August 28, 2005

Kiss My Ass - It Needs It

Continuing this week's theme of "if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all," I have broken my tailbone.

I was going down a flight of narrow stairs at a friend's house, full glass of white wine in hand (which I had not started drinking because we were just then preparing to drink), my heel hit the edge of one of the steps, and my feet FLEW out from under me. I landed flat -- and HARD -- on my derriere on the stair, then bounced down two or three more. It's hard to remember how many, exactly, because I landed so hard I addled my brain. I also flung the entire glass of wine on the walls, ceiling, carpet, my clothing, my face, into my ear and eye ... everywhere but in my mouth, where it might have at least had some mild anesthetic affect.

My friend, who has seen me take pretty spectacular falls before, asked, "Are you all right?" She fully expected an embarrassed giggle and a, "Yep, I'm okay. Ow." -- my usual response to my tumbles. It took me a minute to gather my wits enough to even speak, and I said, in a plaintive tone, "No! I'm really not!" Not only was I in intense, nausea-inducing pain, but I had spilled an entire glass of wine, wasting like five good ounces of alcohol!

I slept on it in the hopes it was just a bruise (well, not on the tailbone - that would hurt - on the issue of the tailbone). Didn't help. Spent most of Sunday morning icing my tush. Helped, but not much. So we headed over to see the fine folks at OSF, and, after some quality time with the doctor, we have discovered that I have, in fact, busted my butt.

It turns out there's not a lot to do for a broken coccyx (heh heh ... coccyx) but to ice it, sit on a cushion with a hole in it, and take super painkillers. And not have sex or give birth. For like six weeks. And let me tell you, nothing looks cooler -- or sexier -- than walking around holding an icepack on your keyster.

The silver lining here really is the painkillers; not only do they make my hindquarters hurt so much less, but they've made the toothache a distant memory. (Frankly, falling down a flight of stairs on my rear so hard that I rattled my brain made me totally forget the toothache since I was seeing actual stars, but I do not reccommend this as a preferred toothache cure.) I was also pleased to discover that my bootylicious booty is actually not fat enough -- if it were fatter, it clearly would have provided enough padding for my little tumble down the staircase.

So now that I have some drugs in me, I have spent most of the evening fishing for sympathy and calling all my friends in the pastorate, because I sort-of feel like I've been waiting my whole entire life to say, in total seriousness:

"Please pray for my ass."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

No giving birth, huh? Good thing you're not pregnant!