We’ve been together 34, almost 35, years now. Well, if you don’t count that 10 month swimming party. Woooo! That was a party, wasn’t it? Didn’t have to do a single thing other than float and kick. Nice, warm water…no responsibilities…didn’t even have to use the legs to move around.
It’s been a heck of a ride. Broken bones, sprained wrists, oh…remember that time I snapped all the ligaments in my left foot? Dang, that hurt. I learned to not walk on a “sleeping” leg that day, that’s for sure. We hung together through two childhood bladder surgeries and idiopathic thrombocytopenia and repeating strep throat and the tonsillectomy from hell. Remember that? Ooooohhhhh…that wasn’t fun. That was nasty. That was bad. Yeah, we fought the tonsils and actually won that battle. They’d won every other battle the previous 18 years. That was right after the first bout of mono, my first year in college.
That’s when things really started going south, wasn’t it? I mean, we were pretty close, you and I, until that point. Still have no idea how I picked that up, I sure wasn’t dating, that’s for damned sure. But, Body, you changed then. Copped an attitude. Became a bit bitchier. You pretty much hijacked me in a dark alley and took me for all I had. I didn’t appreciate that in the slightest, but I forgave you and we moved on. The problems with stress started about then too. I guess a rift in my closest relationship (uh, you) brought on my inability to appropriately deal with stress. Then, dammit, the second bout of mono hit the first year of marriage. Now that, you bitch, was flat-out mean. Come on, mono my first married Valentine’s Day? You and I both know it was stress that brought it on again; I was a first year teacher living in a rural area, newly married, and no friends. But mono, again!? Not fair. You play dirty.
We moved on from that bout (and the corresponding gastritis…bitch) and moved to beeeeyoutiful Colorado. And things were good. Very good. For a year. Then that Evil Villain Stress hit the second year…right about the time I burned out on grad school and flute playing. No mono, thankfully, just TMJ and the tough decision of what to name my ulcer, once it was diagnosed.
And you and I got along, for the most part, until the miscarriage. We forgave each other, once again, and moved on. The pregnancy with A….yeah…you and I took it on the chin with that one. Remember how he’d never stop kicking, how we felt him move at 10 weeks? Poor doctor couldn’t get a steady heartbeat because he was doing laps. Over seven years later and he’s still moving. And ooooohhh…squeezing him out really did a number to you, didn’t it? I’m sorry about that, really I am. But hey, you and I worked like a team! with J’s pregnancy. Piece.Of.Cake. Sorry about the no-drugs thing with him. He was in a hurry. But hey, we made it and felt like a million bucks afterward. Oh, and nice of you to actually provide the breast milk to feed him; you must have been pissy about A’s birth and just didn’t feel like playing dairy.
Those pregnancies hit you hard, didn’t they? Stretch marks (I promise you, Body, if one of the boys compares you to a tiger one more time, there’s gonna be words), the promise of bodacious ta-tas…only to disappear after the dairy shut down, feet FUBARed because of the weight.
And then Evil Villain Stress moved in. Two rambunctious boys invited him in to stay, gave him dinner, rubbed his feet.
You retaliated by putting the thyroid to sleep. Thanks so much, you bitch. I wasn’t tired enough having two sons, but then you body-slammed the energy.
You retaliated by wigging out over my coffee consumption. Well, dimwit, if you hadn’t bitch-slapped the thyroid, I wouldn’t have had to chug half a pot of coffee to try to claw my way out of it. I really do appreciate the deteriorating stomach lining.
You retaliated by packing on the pounds, just for giggles. Ho.
Well. I’m getting the last laugh. I’ve met with a nutritionist to see what the problem is with my stomach, because you, Body, managed to hoodwink the doctors into believing there was nothing wrong. Noooo…Body is always perfect. And tomorrow I’m having a fitness assessment at the New!And!Improved! rec center. I’m going to find out just how psycho you are and I’m going to do something about it. I’m going to have someone at the rec center hold me accountable, and Body, I’m taking charge. You’re going to hate me for awhile, but tough titties, I’ve had enough crap from you thankyouverymuch.
If we’re going to be around for as long as possible, we’re going to have to get along. And right now we’re an old fart married couple who can barely stand each other. Not a prescription for a long relationship, that. So think of this as relationship counseling. And at the end, if we’re still speaking to one another, we’ll be even more compatible and loving and friendly towards one another.
Or I’ll let the boys draw mazes on the stretch marks.
Love and kisses,