Dont Mince Words

Pain for women is a relative thing. We tolerate a lot of crap. Until my recent back episode, I’d never really had pain that I couldn’t handle. Monday I found out that some unexplained occurrences in my life were actually gallstones.

Yes, gallstones, they aren’t for little old ladies anymore. When I received the test results, I checked with my primary care doctor, WebMD, who told me the symptoms. I did a little pain flashback and realized I’ve probably had gallstones for 15 years. The half dozen episodes I’ve had in my lifetime registers on the pain meter somewhere between monthly cramps and my marriage. That kind of pain is easy enough to ignore with a shot of Mylanta.

This week I reverted back to behavior I haven’t displayed since 9/11. We all went a little crazy afterwards with our “you only live once” escapades. Everything was explained with “if you don’t _____, the terrorists win.” Monday night I decided to see if having a couple of Double Barrell ales would break up the stones. Tuesday I tried sonic therapy and listened to The Ramones for hours. Wednesday I got tragically close to opening a $28 bottle of wine, but detoured to the fruit bowl and made a protein smoothie with overripe fruit which my colon paid dearly for today.

My week of denial has left me tired. The stones have won for sure and reminded me I’m closing in on 40. I’ll just drink a beer while I wait for the doctor to call me back. That could take a while with today’s health care. Maybe I should just order a keg.

I was jacked up on caffeine this evening and decided to try something new. I went to the gym at 9 p.m. I had a date with sweat.

With my Ipod on random, I listened to my gym playlist while reading the close-captioning of “Notting Hill” on screen. Despite the multiple stimuli, I was also able to survey the gym single scene. I’ve gotta tell you, it was not date night at 24 Hour Fitness. The odds were 50/50 on the cardio machines and in the free weight, beefcake area. These were not ugly people. Short, yes, but that’s the story of my life.

When Bjork finished singing “I miss you but I haven’t met you yet,” I had gone 2.8 miles and burned 400 calories. I walked out alone with sweat dripping but happy knowing I wasn’t the only person without plans on a Saturday night.

I might go back early tomorrow for “church” on the treadmill.

I selfishly went to Comic-Con in San Diego this weekend in search of material. I was hoping it was going to be a room of adult male virgins and other random freaks. It turned out to be like Washington Square Park on a weekend, except with an inordinate amount of families.

When did comics, animation, and anime go mainstream? Has gaming helped? I don’t know. I saw a lot of father/son combos, which means somebody in the convention center was having sex. There were also a healthy percentage of Asian females dressed up as little school girls. I assume they had an anime fetish, or were there to help the teen male virgins. I saw a newborn in a Spiderman onesie, and a family of Jedi warriors. I was dressed in normal street clothes, but added a touch of freak by putting my hair up in a Princess-Leia-on-acid configuration.

I found myself enjoying the areas catering to younger audiences. The Pokemon booth rocked and I scored some trading cards for my nephews. Nickelodeon also had a booth featuring Jimmy Neutron and my beloved Spongebob. The kids were going ape shit for swag and raffle drawings. It was exciting to watch.

My purchases were tame. I bought Giant Robot t-shirts for my nephews. A girl in my office has her Jesus bobblehead pointing into my cube, so I got a Quick Draw McGraw and Squiddly Diddly to complete the unholy trinity.

Overall, a tame day that left me actually missing New York.