Recently, I made my maiden horseback-riding voyage while spending the weekend with 26 fifth grade Girl Scouts on a dude ranch. Believe it or not, it was one of the most relaxing, enjoyable few days that I have had in a long time. The staff completely entertained the troop during every waking hour and the chaperones did not have to cook, clean, drive, organize, check email, wipe butts, scream, fake interest or think for 48 hours.
The highlight for me was getting my ass completely manhandled by a young cowboy who was desperately trying to feel get me up on the horse. The more he tried to push my butt up, the more I giggled and could not for the life of me pull my dead weight up on to the saddle. It didn’t help that the poor kid lost his right glove somewhere between my cellulite and crack. Giddy up!
A week later, I noticed what I thought was an attractive underground zit on the side of my face. Later, that side started to hurt which I attributed to the two hours I was laying on the couch watching bad TV. So I switched positions and carried on. In the middle of the night, my lymph nodes and fake zit were screaming mad and woke me up.
I meet with a new doctor and explain to him that I might have a mysterious parasite because I was surrounded by horse crap for an entire weekend. (For the record, Aidan had a parasite illness, so I thought I was being helpful.) He took two steps back as if I still smelled like dung — which I probably did — and explained that it is a skin infection. If it blisters and burns in a few days, it’s shingles. Start antibiotics. Seriously, what’s next? The gout? For cripe’s sake, I’m old.
This friggin’ growth hurts and I am popping Motrin like they are Pez. In the meantime, Aidan is begging to have his friends over. When I try to explain that I am not up for having a house full of kids, Aidan says, “Well, you’re not acting sick.” I then explain with clenched teeth that I can’t act sick because who is going to make the lunches, run them to activities, help with work, wash clothes or get dinner on the table. I see his eyes glaze over exactly like my husband’s, and he slipped away during my tirade.
So I stalk the doctor’s office a couple of days later. They don’t get back to me until closing and decide to put me on meds for shingles — five times a day. I go back for an exam and the Doc is still puzzled over my goiter and refers me to a lesion specialist. Didn’t know there was such a thing and frankly, I’m a little grossed out. I know this is hypocritical seeing that I’m the one with the freak face. That appointment is Saturday.
In the meantime, I think this whole ordeal is a pile of Horse Shit.