Let me tell you about my ass. It's not exciting. Or eloquent. Anatomically-speaking, it's an also-ran. Polite co-existence is about all the relationship I have with it. I never notice it--no matter which way I turn, it's behind me. And honestly, it's the last thing you'd notice about me.
In short, as Shakespeare once said, it's full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
So here's what's ironic; it's nothing to write home about, and it's preventing me from blogging. Because the excruciating pain I'm feeling in my right butt cheek keeps me from thinking deep, insightful thoughts to share with the internet.
I know what you're thinking: what's stopping her the rest of the time?
That's a very good question. And I'd answer it if the agony of my right butt cheek weren't short-circuiting the neurological equipment necessary to do the job.
The only thing I can wrap my brain around at the moment is the question of whom to blame for my current state of agony. My friend J., for deciding that we were going to walk for two hours and forty-five minutes on Monday? My friend J. again, for deciding that we needed to use the stair climber at the gym on Tuesday? Or the Maharani of Massage, for wrapping my right leg around my head and then sitting on me on Wednesday?
And it's not going to get any better. I'm going to be meeting with the Maharani of Massage four times a week. And a swim coach for two days a week.
Mark my words. Before you know it, I'll be lying in a hospital bed. In traction. Blogging by cell phone.
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