I am officially of the age for horrible things to happen. Stop reading now if you are easily offended. There will be laughs but you will probably want to go laugh in a closet somewhere, kind of like a Baptist hiding at the liquor store. You do it but you don’t want anyone to know that you do it. Ok, now with that out of the way I can go back to the horrible things. As a child, you think that growing up will catapult you into this wonderful land of being able to do what you want. While that is partially true, as a child you fail to realize that this wonderful land comes with a cost and then taxes. You have to work, pay taxes, work some more, pay taxes, and then keep on working. So much so that you forget about that wonderful land you imagined as a child. You realize that you now growl at the coffee pot when it shortchanges you on the elixir of the zombies.
But what you really don’t think about are the ways your body betrays you as you age. I’ve spent a lot of money on creams for my face but I have neglected my poor belly. Years of stress eating and steroids have made it a hot mess in more ways than one. Yesterday, I wanted to wear what I call my “Halloween dress.” It is a lacy black dress that resembles the Addams Family attire. But in order to do that, I had to wear my shaper shorts. I would love to call them Spanx but these bad boys come from the big girl store and are a little more forgiving than the devil’s panties. Or so I thought.
These were a new pair I’d recently just bought and should really have known better than to break them in during a work day. But common sense was not the flower growing in my garden yesterday. I was just trying to shape my fat into something less like fat and to protect my thunder thighs from starting a forest fire. Everything seemed fine at first but that all changed when I got to work. Of course. I was walking from my car when all of a sudden I felt a shift in the fabric of the shapers. It was like they’d grown teeth and a hunger for killing my crotch. Lord help me. I twisted as I walked and tried to not look like I was having a seizure of some sort but that made it worse. Were these britches alive? I swear I felt them move and try to gnaw at my lady bits. The more I’d walk, the more they would flip on my flap. I finally got into the building where I was able to go to the restroom and practically perform a seance to get these things on straight. I had a pep talk with my vajayjay before I slipped them on again. Luckily, whatever magic I did worked and they weren’t trying to sexually assault me anymore.
They don’t warn you about things like that when you’re young. I used to look at the girdles stashed in my grandmothers dresser and swear I would never wear that. Well the jokes on me because I was raised with a bunch of cooking women. The “Ogletree belly,” as it was called in the family, was real and I’d inherited it. Two c-sections and multiple abdominal surgeries haven’t helped. I have a battefield so it should come as no surprise that I have found myself with colon problems.
I found myself in the ER a few weeks ago with severe abdominal pain. It’s been an ongoing problem for a little while now, sometimes waking me up in the middle of the night. I’ve tried to ignore it. I’ve tried to say that I’m too young for this. Well, until my doctor told me that I’m actually past due for my first colonoscopy. First? You mean there’s more than one? Is it not bad enough that I have hairs growing on my chin and shapewear that tried to assault me?
But wait…there’s more. Read that with as much fake enthusiasm as I read it in my own head. I went ahead and scheduled the dang thing which is for day after tomorrow. So we all know what that means, right? Tomorrow is the day of “prep.” Let me be frank about this, there is nothing that can adequately prepare a person to have a tube rammed up the brown tunnel to poop town. And yet, I have a whole entire bottle of Miralax that I will mix with the clear beverage of my choice tomorrow. Don’t forget the four Dulcalax tablets that will kickstart the party at 10am. Can’t wait. I’ve been dreaming of my butt feeling like it’s been accosted by sandpaper since I was a kid. No, wait. I’ve been waiting on science to find a better way of doing this since I first learned of what one of these was.
When I was a teenager, my dad had one and I felt secure in my belief that by the time it was my turn, science would have found another way of checking out the stink rink. But, no. I’m let down again by science and technology. Not only are flying cars not the norm, I have to deliberately create a volcano in my colon that will erupt until my poop is clear. Deliberately. On purpose. Until it is clear. Imagine washing chocolate until it’s clear. But wait…..there’s more. Then, as if eating nothing but broth and Jello isn’t enough to ignite the flame of excitement in my spirit, I get to go to the anal photo booth. Where are the fireworks? Is the champagne chilling as we speak?
Yes, I’m being dramatic. Yes, plenty of people have had these done and lived to tell the story. But this week has already been tough for a multitude of reasons, to include, but not limited to, the demon shorts. And I willingly scheduled this procedure a few weeks back thinking it was so far out I would have time to mentally prepare. Clearly, I was fooling myself. I bought six packs of flushable wipes, enough broth to make soup for the town of roughly 20,000 people, and Gatorade that I dread drinking. I’ve got to remember not to eat the red or purple popsicles. And, Jesus take the wheel, I cannot have my normal coffee which means I won’t have any coffee. I was a buffarilla today with my coffee and a heavy dose of anxiety. I will be straight up heifer of the year tomorrow without my coffee and especially food. Say a prayer y’all…my ass has already had a tough week. But it ain’t seen nothin yet.
Messpot Diaries 