This Blog Has Nothing To Do With Lesbianism And That’s Why I Changed The Title Y’all.
(Just roll eyes and keep reading…)
He’s got one latex-gloved finger deep in my mouth and the other stuck in my ear.
I mumble something unintelligible, and he pulls his spittle-covered finger out of my mouth with a twist of his wrist as though twirling drippage from a just-poured bottle of wine.
I swallow the accumulated saliva, clear my throat, stretch my jaw wide—activating a popping sound on my left side—and ask him, Did you hear that?
He did.
He waits with his hand in mid-air waiting for me to tell him whatever else I’m about to say.
Me: Oh. Yes. No, nothing.
But what I’m really thinking is how challenging it is to not bite his finger or rather the meaty part of his thumb closest to my chompers—he was way in there.
I offer this modified thought: I can’t relax my jaw; I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.
He laughs, but doesn’t offer a response other than sticking his finger back in my mouth.
After this he tells me my homework is to stick a piece of PVC pipe in my mouth. Wait, WTH?
Okay, fine. Let’s backtrack a smidgen …
Depending on how long you’ve been readying this naughty, sometimes trashy, almost never brassy, definitely not PC, but often TMI drivel, you will know that I might be a slight hypochondriac.
To bring you up to speed as quick as a kitty, here’s a brief history on my (recent-ish) health issues. (Let’s cut off the timeline to the past five years.):
(Deep breath and …)
Cliff’s/Coles Notes:
I was a workaholic in a stressy (AJ word) job for twenty years, which contributed to adrenal fatigue.
I got my (mercury-packed) dental fillings out unbiologically, which resulted in mercury poisoning that contributed to adrenal fatigue.
I tried to be a good PETA person—a Vegan—but knew f’all about proper nutrition as a non-animal-eating super heroine, which led to clinically low cholesterol levels that contributed to… adrenal fatigue.
I grew up in a lumberjack camp with nudie wallpaper (see my memoir), but that didn’t contribute to my ill health (maybe mentally, but not physically): the lead pipes and creosote-tainted river water I drank probably did because I also had off-the-chart levels of lead, cadmium, cesium, and barium: heavy metals in my system that, you guessed it, contributed to adrenal fatigue.
The above causes of adrenal fatigue led to hypothyroidism (slow thyroid).
Hypothyroidism lead to my hair falling out and gaining twenty f’in pounds, people! (That led to me being extra bitchy, er, comedic.)
A now-admitted midlife crisis (see my memoir) led to costume parties and slick party tricks like performing the splits, which is totally fine—just go with it—except I was doing the rockstar splits (jumping up before thrashing all the way down into scissors), and that’s totally fine—shhh—except I’m no expert in doing the splits. I have hip issues.
I pee my pants. (See several blog posts. Frown. Male readers: see only “Bionic Vagina” post. Wink.)
I see spots. Eye floaters. Okay, that’s no biggy, now I’m just reaching.
My ass has fallen and it won’t get up? (Fiiine. Not a healthy issue. But it still concerns me.)
Chin hair? (Memoir. Just sayin’.)
Oh, right! I’ve had neck and shoulder stiffness for, like, ever. I thought it was from improper posture and extended periods of time writing on my iPad, but it turns out I have TMJ! (Possibly from jaw surgery years ago—see next memoir. Actually, I’m not that ambitious, so see potential future blog post. Or not.)
TMJ stands for something biological-technical—Google it—and causes my jaw to be in a state of constant tension, which is why I have resting bitchy face and why I want to pit bull my adulthood hometown physiotherapist’s finger off when it’s stabbing me in my mouth!
So, anyway, after he massages my TMJ-related mouth muscles (and my ear canal—??), my jaw is sore from being stretched out, and my mouth is all numb and throbbing. And I’m trying to recall the last time I had this “sensation.” (Well, let’s just say, it’s been awhile.)
My homework is to use a portion of a PVC pipe to stretch my jaw muscles because, as my physiotherapist tells me, “One side is way tighter than the other.”
Of course, I want to make a naughty comment but refrain and giggle instead. (I don’t think he caught on.)
In our first appointment, he’d asked about my other ailments, so now he moves on to my hip flexors.
I offer my theory: See, it could be a stretched ligament from doing the splits way back when—
He chuckles and says, I remember that story. (Apparently, I’d mentioned this a few years ago when “the incident” first occurred.)
—Right. So, anyway, it could be that, or it might be that my psoas muscle is super tight because I always forget to stretch, but I’ve been much better about that lately. Well, not that I’ve worked out in the last few weeks—I had a cold. It lasted two weeks. Can you believe that? … Where was I? … Oh, yeah, so maybe it’s connected to my bladder issue … hmm … (No secrets in my life.)
Meanwhile, he’s now silently poking my inside groin area (location of said psoas, pronounced so-as) while I chatter nervously. My leg goes up, and he moves around to the place where my hamstring connects to my lame-ass. I’m pretty sure this therapy is all on the up and up, and I’m also hoping no parts of him are on their way up.
After a couple more minutes of uncomfortable quiet, for me, I say, Hey! Maybe it’s psychological!
What do you mean? He replies calmly, still jabbing.
My leaky bladder. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid to get in a relationship with a man because I might pee on him! I’m a little too enthusiastic with the thought of discovering the cause of this so-not-sexy quality.
He laughs and asks me to continue with my theory.
See, I suck at picking the right guy for me—which you have to admit is kind of ironic given my new-found career (wingmam’ing). And, you know, I went from one Mr. Wrong For Me to another until I finally chose a good guy, good on paper at least, and then I tried to grow my amorous feelings for him by having sex with him, multiple times, a fling really, but it ended disastrously blah blah blah … That whole “women release oxytocin during sex and bond with the dude,” yeah, that didn’t happen for me. So maybe I subconsciously created this bladder thing as a psychological safety net!
Him: Hmm. Maybe. (Poke poke stab jab.)
With a vitamin container partially stuffed in my mouth, I drive back to my family’s home (where I’m visiting). Oncoming drivers squint and stare at me. I don’t have a piece of PVC pipe, after all.
What have I (re)learned?
When two years of searching for healthy answers leads to two more years of naturopathic treatment and one still has a slow thyroid (and saddle bags and now a military haircut), it’s time to get on the meds. Check.
A penchant for chocolate and croissants might have contributed to the aforementioned extra padding. Frown.
Saddle bags are not the direct result of being “Ma’amed,” although it sure feels like it. But ma’aming is better than being “Sergeant Mastered” and that did happen. #truestory
Homework:
Step away from the treats, Ma’am.
Run, walk, or hobble my lagging ass back to the gym A-sap.
Research “pee fetish.” (Craigslist? The personals?)
Scrap #3. Call gyno, book bladder lift surgery. A-sap. Check.
Lipstick! Lipstick and eyelashes!! Check, please!
P.S. I was originally going to title this post: Hypothyroidism Leads to Lipstick Lesbianism (Warning: Total Bait & Switch Title), but notes from my editor led me to change my mind. So, yeah, now I’m totally in the clear! (Wink.)
