If My Pubic Bone Could Talk

August 13, 2009

If my pubic bone could talk it would be like, "What the hell?"

But since it can't talk I'll speak on behalf of it by saying, "What the hell?"

I never experienced anything like this during my pregnancy with James, but this time around, whenever I exert myself to any degree, five minutes later I'm limping around like a cowboy who just rode his horse all the way across the great state of Texas (and got kicked in the groin with a steel-toed boot somewhere around Amarillo).

This pain-in-the-crotch of which I speak? It's 100% of the reason that I hung up my running shoes a couple weeks ago--I just couldn't stand it anymore. Well that and the teenage spit flying at me, but you know, whatever.

For the last four weeks or so, with the exception of a minute or two here or there (obviously when no one is looking), I've downgraded my running to walking and I'm not gonna lie, it totally blows. Don't get me wrong, I like to walk as much as the next menopausal woman in a terry-cloth sweatsuit, but honestly, I miss feeling the burn.

As a matter of fact, I miss feeling the burn so much, that if it hadn't been for my husband saying something completely assholian, like "Well stick a fork in her vanjango, folks--she's done," every time I limped into the kitchen after a run, I'd probably still be doing it.

But I'm not. So I guess that entire last paragraph is completely inconsequential.

Anywho, yesterday afternoon, James mustered up his very best manners and asked me if I wanted to play tag with him. He was like, "Mommy, may you play tag with me outside for some minutes?"

I couldn't resist his mastery of the English language, so obviously I said yes.

I also said yes on account of the fact that a good game of tag would burn some calories while simultaneously banking some serious super-mom points--but really now, who's keeping count of all the selfishness and ill-intentioned acts in the universe anyhow? (Oh. What's that you say? God is? Whoops.)

So we played tag, at full speed, for forty-five minutes.

This involved running up hills, down hills, around lawn ornaments (I have many), over rock walls, and through hedges without any break to speak of. By the time all was said and done, once I had lured James back to indoor sedentary comfort with the promise of a Kit-Kat bar, my pubic bone was on fire.

Notice I didn't say that my pubic bone felt like it was on fire, but that it was actually on fire. Because it was. On the inside. And that's the honest truth.

It hurt so badly that I actually decided to forgo walking and crawl to my front door--you know, for intense dramatic effect--but that hurt even worse, so I decided to cry like an almost-two-hundred-pound baby and walk the old fashioned way.

When Jared got home from church (yeah, keep that in mind) an hour or so later, he found me sprawled on the bathroom floor, clinging to my lady parts for dear life. As he stepped over my limp body, and unbuttoned his pants for what seemed to be an impending poop he was like, "Dude, what in the crap is wrong with you?"

And I was all, "You wanna know what's wrong with me? I played tag for forty-five minutes, now I'm paralyzed, unable to move, and I'll kill you if you take a dump while I'm incapacitated on this bathroom floor."

And my husband, the one who regularly makes me rethink the meaning of love, was all, "Sorry, Ames. Gotta do a poo whether you're paralyzed on the floor or not."

Apparently death threats mean nothing from a woman in my condition because there he sat, 'working out his issues' shall we say, while I used nothing but my toes to push my very pregnant body across the tile, out of the bathroom, and into the hallway--much like a snake, if a snake had toes.

Then he flushed, stepped over me again, went to the fridge and cracked open an icy cold Coke.

I was like, "Bastard."

And he was all, "Fatty."

And then he helped me up and smacked me on the rear like a baseball coach or something.

I was like, "What was that? Some kind of encouragement or something?"

And he was all, "Nope, just wanted to touch your ass." And that was the end of that.

The flame in my crotch (remember, that's literal, not figurative) continued to flare up for each of seven nocturnal bathroom trips, and still hurts like mother to this very moment.

And that's why, if my pubic bone could talk, if would totally be saying, "What the hell?"

The End.