(Or, Meditations on a possibly broken tailbone)

So, on the day before Halloween, we got one little bitty snowstorm in New Jersey and I, who am from effing COLORADO and had never before fallen on the ice, had a total, disastrous, cartoon-style wipeout on our front steps. I fell right on my medial sacral crest (ass), and have basically been dealing with low-level aches and pains and swelling since then.

My tailbone likes:
• Heating pad

My tailbone does not like:
• Marching in the Occupy Wall Street November 17 thing and almost getting smushed further by the NYPD
• Going up and down the stairs in sports stadiums
• Inclines and declines
• Yoga
• Doing the Charleston at the End-of-the-Twenties party
• Going to the gym for more than 20 minutes at a time
• Sitting at my desk
• Airplanes

In short, I have been getting pretty boring, inflexible, and chubby sitting around on my stupid, much-hated heating pad. I went to the ER when it happened (incidentally, 98% of the nice people I have met in Jersey were working in the ER that day). Then I went to Mean Condescending Doctor, who said things like "I really don't want to image you if we don't have to" and "well, you have to give me some kind of reason if you want me to send you to physical therapy." Obviously her getting better plan did jack shit, and I just sat around slowly swelling up to the size of a Macy's float and getting more and more boring.

So I FINALLY went to a real doctor today (six weeks after the fall), and she's like, oh, well, actually you really need an x-ray. Sigh.

All of this is to say that it is a really good husband who not only doesn't mind when you are boring and chubby and inflexible, but will actually stop on his way home, in the drizzly disgusting rain, to pick up a donut-shaped rubber pillow that you have to inflate by mouth, and which tastes so disgusting that it nearly makes you hurl, and then proceeds to blow the thing up for you and not even mention his level of disgust until later, when you accidentally touch your lip with the same hand that had touched the donut (which, incidentally, belongs on the tailbone-does-not-like list) and discover its utterly horrific rubbery taste. Yep. That's a good husband.