In Which My Body Has Decided To Dick Me

Okay, so I'm coming up on the end of my 50th year. Alright, technically it's the end of my 51st year on Earth. A fact that only douche bag, egg heads hell bent on making me feel ancient would dare point out.

Assholes.

In any case, it has been one hell of a terrific year spent traveling with my ever-loving Geo to see our two favorite fellas, Francis Dunnery and the divine Rhett Miller multiple times in multiple cities, meeting and befriending a bevy of beautiful, smart, fun women from all over, reconnecting with old friends and generally having the time of my seasoned life.

For the most part, my main frame held up extremely well with only minor creaks and cracks.

Until now.

Over the last several weeks, my corporal being has staged an all-out mutiny that would make Mr. Christian stand back and say, "Daaamn!". That crazy Bee-yatch is loaded for bear and taking no prisoners. Hip joint harassment, neck immobility, teeth issues, skin anomalies, hijacked hormones... You name it.

You'll feel a slight discomfort

Don't get me wrong. Staring down the barrel of 50 has been one of the most freeing experiences I've ever had. Truly one of the best years of my life, but the minute you click over the fictional halfway mark (seriously, who actually lives to be 100 besides big-ass parrots with huge talons and beaks strong enough to rip a vein from my neck. *shudder* Just add parrots to the long list of crap that freaks me out.) everybody wants a piece of you. And not in a good, "hey sailor, show a gal a good time?" kinda way. Nooooo. Instead every doctor you come across wants to stick some kind of tube up or down every orifice in your gravity-challenged body.

*Ding Dong*

Here's your AARP card and a cavalcade of white coats to completely violate you in the name of science and good health because, you know, it's good for you, dammit! Get those leeches away from me, Dr. Wellsville.

What the hell are you looking at?

 But I digress...

That all said, I find myself unable to ignore the physical revolt happening within me in spite of my indignant refusal to acknowledge my inevitable decay. So this winter has become my personal 50,000 mile check up:

1. I'm back on the chiropractic crack circuit three times a week in an effort to get my spinal column to SHUT THE HELL UP! This also affords me the opportunity to rekindle my torrid love affair with the massage table. Oh how I have missed thee and thine loving caress. (lights two cigarettes Ala Now Voyager)

2. I'm scheduled to have all kinds of nonsense extracted from my exterior along with a complimentary buff and wax. (Thursday is Ladies Day, don't ya know.)

3. Graft flesh to a gum line that's gone South for the winter. It was supposed to be back by now, but then decided it was really nice in Florida and opted to give me the one-finger salute and take up permanent residence in the Sunshine State.

Open wide

This last bit is already done. It's a lovely procedure where the dentist uses an offset baking spatula to stretch ones gum line four feet where it's tacked to a bulletin board while said Doc takes a Williams Sonoma cheese slicer to the roof of ones mouth, smears a little cream cheese and capers on it, tucks it in the cavernous space next to the shivering, naked tooth then pulls the pushpin, letting the stretchy length of gum snap back in place where it is gingerly stitched with a curved upholstery needle the size of your hand.

Mo, Larry ... CHEESE!

Okay, so I exaggerate. The bulletin board was only two feet away.


All I can say is thank God for numbing agents. Lots and lots of numbing agents. In the non-hyperbolic real world, it wasn't that bad. I look like Alvin and the Chipmunks, but the drugs are kicking the soreness square in the arse. The worst part is having to consciously chew only on one side for two weeks and avoid all things crunchy. Of course now all I want is all things crunchy. I swear I can hear the bags of potato chips, pretzels and peanut butter crackers mocking me as I walk through the kitchen.

Evil bastards.

And now I sound like an old fart bitching about every flipping ache and pain. Nice. Next thing you know I'll start  referring to dressers as chifforobes and davenports in a sickeningly sweet Southern accent. ACK!

Behold...a chifforobe, bitch

(oh great. I've just used a word so old the blogger spellcheck didn't recognize it. Stop suggesting cherub! It's not a cherub, it's an effing chifforobe!! P.S.: Bite me.)

So there you have it. My major overhaul has begun. I should be a new person by Spring, but I draw the line at tubes up my colon, Dude. There's not enough wining and dining in the world right now that will make me consent to that. Not. Gonna. Happen.

You know what you can do with that tube, right?

That's what I'm talking about.