Desperate Housewives Incarnate

So, my weekend was spent taking umpteen baths. To let you know how significant this is, I hate baths. Particularly now when it’s just one more thing for which I need a crane to get out of. And despite my bravado regarding bodily functions last week, I am not one of those tactless people who shares my pains with the world. Well, just the Internet. But it is with great hesitation. I don’t want to appear as if I moan and complain all the time; just some will do.
It started Friday. The pain in my derriere. No, not my tantruming toddler (who has been surprisingly delightful lately), but real, veritable pain. By the end of the night, this pain escalated to excruciating pain that kept me up all night long. This is not an exaggeration. I could not sleep due to said pain. In the rear. How humiliating.

By morning, I was exhausted and barely functional as I explained my condition to my husband. “Sounds like you have [insert dreaded kissin' cousins H-word]. I hear it’s really common in pregnancy.” What? Me? Not possible. Isn’t it enough I’ve had every other crummy condition lately…couldn’t at least part of me be spared?

Hunky Hubby prescribed Preparation H after explaining its physical properties in great detail. He never ceases to amaze me with this endless knowledge of every supplement and drug on the market. “My friend used it on his midsection before his bodybuilding competitions. Supposedly it has an ingredient that removes water from under the skin.” So THAT’S how they get their 6-pack abs. To think I’ve wasted years on those stupid sit-ups.

I spent the weekend curled up in whatever tolerable condition I could find. I even missed our block party I’d been looking forward to all month. I suppose I could’ve loped over there like a saddle-sore cowboy but I just didn’t want to discuss my condition. No worries, Dear Internet, because Hunky Hubby did.

“Not with everyone,” he defended himself. “Just with XX and XX” (one of whom is the neighborhood gossip). Nice to know my kissin’ cousins will be numbered among the guy who’s growing weed in his basement and the other one who’s a philanderer. Wisteria Lane doesn’t have nothin’ on us….

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