She’s lump.

I imagine that my brain got stuck inside of my body like a splinter 26 years ago and ever since the tissue and skin has been growing over it, trapping it, and now I’m making do.  

Today I thought we could delight in a nice annual physical together and take our pee in (or around and all over) the cup and place it in the teeny window and get on with our lives. 

There are many instructions and required reading involved when you’re going to pee in a cup.  And a pen dangling from a chain that you’re supposed to use to write your name on the cup and so on.  It’s a shame that they specify, “NO NICKNAMES” because I was going to write April “Showers” Swartz on my sample.  A sample!  A sample of what I have to offer you… in urine. 

I struggle with a bit of performance anxiety when I have to take a piss at a specific time in an appointed place.  They should have a 3-ring binder full of plastic sheet protected photos displaying dripping faucets, streams, and waterfalls next to the toilet.  Sort of like what they offer men for their spank banks. 

Could we not meet in the middle with some nudie mermaids?

Sometimes when I’m in there I think I’ll just never pee.  I’ll finally stumble out into the hallway at two in the morning dehydrated, lips cracked, throat closing, vision distorted, and knees creaking loudly like the Tin Man’s to find all the lights off.  Then I’ll collapse in the arms of a lonely night cleaner who gives me the disapproving mother face as I drift to sleep in his pine sol-y embrace while loosening my grip on one sad, empty cup.

Don’t worry, we eventually gave it up.   

Later on my doctor gave me a dummy boob to play with while he left the room.  I was instructed to “find the lumps”.  A game best played by one’s self, like Solitaire. 

Well, I cheated because there were 3 dirty and weathered spots on this hobo boob.  I mashed on them and felt snow caps. 

It felt pretty awesome to tell my doctor to “wash that boob” before I left the office.

Exercising my demons.

I hover between delighting in conversation with other women at the gym and being completely, mentally chafed by it. 

A couple weeks ago a real looker of a blonde-y asked me what I was reading as I was hard at work huffing and puffing and blowing my way through a cardio session on the elliptical.  While I took a few hours to catch my breath (I was a Texan, teenage, Marlboro red smoker)  she offered, “I’m always looking for a new book!”   

Something about the way she was beaming up at me from the treadmill really caught me off guard.  She never broke her stride and I can hardly turn a page without belly flopping off of the machine.

Here’s my winning reply:  “It’s good!!!”  I should capitalize that because I did sort of shout it as I flashed her the title quickly, but it’s almost too embarrassing (even for me) to share that part.  She smirked and looked away. 

Instead of turning the next page with a moistened fingertip I wiped my forehead and pruned the following pages with a handful of nervous sweat.  

It’s too bad Amazon doesn’t carry my next read  in anything other than paperback.  I was going to request it on toddler vinyl with more pictures.  Wait, maybe less in this case. 

Product Description
It’s difficult to love a woman whose vagina is a gateway to the world of the dead.

 

Yeah, tell my boyfriend about it. 

We meat again.

The most wonderful circle of friends a gal could ask for went behind my back to gather money for someone else to get behind my back and rub on it for a large sum of money. 

Some people call it a massage.  I call it admitting to the spa staff and you all that I’m really nothing more than a piece of food.  Albeit a very relaxed and mouthy morsel.

I waited for a few minutes at the end of a dark hallway watching people come in and out of doors.  Some like me were there to be marinated and tenderized while others were going to be plucked, sucked, waxed, and stoned. 

I didn’t take the seaweed wrap option because you really can’t be too sure they won’t feed you to a giant with a craving for human sushi afterward. 

Joe, my massage therapist, looked like an updated version of a He-Man action figure.  For the record, he blew my mind and melted my insides with the mystical power of Grayskull. 

I have to admit though, I spent the first few minutes wishing someone would slip me a downer.  They should really rethink the musical combination of waves crashing against the shore accompanied by a crying piano.  I couldn’t stop thinking about shipwrecked beauties like the RMS Titanic or the movie, The Piano.

My stars, all this time I had no idea what I was missing.  I felt downright sloppy drunk when he was through.  Thankfully I was all alone in that room when my oily, Gumby foot hit the stepping stool.  People falling is funny enough with clothes on, can you imagine? 

Don’t imagine.