"sciatica (n): condition that causes unceasing, unrelenting, never ending (yeah, I'm being repetitive, wanna make somethin of it?) intractable pain at the top of one of your ass cheeks, pain that ricochets randomly all around all points south of your ass cheek, pain so maddening that you find yourself fantasizing about committing the most violent crimes you can think of just because you've run out of other distractions."
That, my friends, is motherf-ing sciatica.
To the ladies who've squeezed fully-formed humans out through your angry, angry lady parts, remember how you started screaming when it got to be too much even though you swore you weren't going to be like those wusses on TLC's A Baby Story because you thought yourself so much more highly evolved than those losers? Remember the moment right before you gave in and started screaming? That very moment is where I've been all week, a week that has included an 8-hour road trip across the entire breadth of our great state of New York.
I've had it, people.
How'd it happen? I don't frickin know but I have a guess. We were visiting relatives in the Buffalo area, the kids and I. Husband wasn't in town yet, still working and following a day later. I was sleeping on an air mattress per usual. No, now don't go blaming the air mattress, I love air mattresses, I love all kinds of mattresses, and couches, and chaises, and carpets with nice cushy naps...and I can sleep like a drunken homeless person on any of them in complete and utter bliss. But this particular time something unusual happened. (Yeah, get comfortable, grab your coffee...I'll wait for you.)
It was the wee small hours of the morning, and the whole wide world was fast asleep...all except my sweet boy Calvin. He was up. He'd been sleeping on the bottom bunk of a bed right next to me. I'd pulled the air mattress right up next to him just to keep him close by. We've done this tons of times. Never even think about the top bunk, never use it for anything but stacking up some clothes, wasn't even sure how you were supposed to get up there. Calvin decided to find out. I'm starting to figure out how he does it. It must be that he watches me sleep, waits for rapid eye movement so he knows I'm pretty well under, then makes his move. Carpe diem!!! And this, my dear friends, is a photo re-enactments of how I was awakened that morning:
Imagine my surprise! How many of you have been ripped out of a dead sleep quite that way? And what to my wondering eyes did appear but Calvin "Superfly Snuka" Stroh-Simon, belly flopped on top of me, giggling ecstatically, smiling his glorious billion watt smile into my face, my groggy shocked face, as if to say, "Was that not AWESOME, Momma? Shall we do it again?"
The good news is that there's been no evidence of internal injuries to my person. The not-as-good news is that later that day my neck and shoulders started to feel like I'd been smartly rear-ended at a stoplight by a monster truck. And by the next morning, the ass pain commenced, that condition whose official fancy pants name I defined for you above.
It's not all bad, really. If I'm standing up perfectly straight or lying down perfectly flat, it doesn't bother me much. But I had a little setback yesterday because, well, I've done horrible things in this or some other lifetime and karma is karma. I was taking Grace to her first day of summer rec camp, pulled up to the curb in front of the school, no hurries no worries, summertime and the living is easy...but as I'm a little compromised with the ass pain thing, I must not be lifting my feet up high enough when I do things like step up onto a curb.
And so, I face-planted.
It felt very slow motion, like I could feel as each part of me hit the pavement within the split second it took for me to bite the dust. So weird. And the inner dialog went, "left hand, palm down...smarts but probably not broken...right knee...hmmmm that's going to leave a mark...right shoulder...owie, even bigger mark...NOT THE FACE NOT THE FACE!!!!!"
Know what the hardest thing about the fall was? THE CONCRETE! Hahahahahaha!!!!! No, I jest, the hardest thing was having to limp into the elementary school with my child, me looking like I'd come from the wrong end of a street rumble or maybe caught some shrapnel on my way in from the parking lot. Teenager counselors looking at me like I must be the mother who eats vodka jello shots and OxyContin for breakfast. "We have a first-aid kit, ma'am" says one of the vibrant, fresh-faced, excrutiatingly young and beautiful staff members. She was only trying to help. So I refrained from beating on her even the littlest bit. I know, my self control is awe-inspiring.
That little incident was yesterday, and I'm much better now. I hurt all over and I have the oozing scabbed face of a meth addict...but I've been able to sit here long enough to write you this post without having to throw a lamp across the room.
But I'm going to stand up now, we're running low on lamps.
And I could use a snack...there's always room for Jello.
