...when you're sick or in pain. There must be some evolutionary reason which you all turn into little children with a minor fever or an infected hangnail, but damn if I can figure out what it is. Every female friend of mine nods her head and rolls her eyes in agreement when ever the subject comes up.
Maybe it's because we get cramps once a month or experience childbirth or I don't know, removed our own appendix with a pocketknife and a bottle of vodka, but we all pretty much agree that while you're sort of cute when you get all whiny puppy dog on us, we still snicker over what total wussies you are when it comes to physical discomfort.
Remember that the next time you hear me scream about a spider in the bathroom, mmmmm'kay?
Mon Amour spent 4 days replacing parts on his motorcycle, squatting and crouching round it in ways that would make my ex-ballet dancer knees wince in phantom sympathy pain. He claims that it doesn't bother his knees, but then again, he also sits like this
And in finding that illustrative photo, I discover that it's termed "W-sitting" and that it's baaaaaaaad. And that Internet Rule 34 is in full effect as there seems to be at least one blog fetishizing chicks sitting like that. Gotta go scrub the ick off my skin....
(I also know when Mon Amour is super exhausted as he'll wind up sleeping in a W-sitting, face plant into pillow, ass in the air position, like so
At least one of his friends has a blackmail photo of this from a trip they took together...Anywho enough cute babies illustrating positions that make my joints wince...)
So after 4 days of this, he mentions offhand that his back is a little sore and scoffs when I point out the crouching. His back occasionally gets sore from being on his feet for work all the time, and he usually just rests it or has me massage it a bit. No big whoop.
Suffice to say we did not pay attention to nature's foreshadowing as he calls me into the bathroom to help him up from the kneeling position he managed to crawl into when his back suddenly spasmed as he was on the bidet.
Not easy when you're 30 weeks preggo and the love of your life is simultaneously grimacing in pain yet exhorting you to not strain yourself. For fuck's sake, he won't even let me carry the groceries. Now imagine me trying to get a shoulder under his armpit in a tight space to help him up and him avoiding said help up. I'm pretty sure I was just there for moral support and hand holding.
I maneuver him towards the bed and shove 4 ibuprofen down his throat. Normally he's all "What's this? No I don't need it." when I give him the occasional pill, so I know he's in pain when he swallows them without a peep.
I do take a moment to have a small chuckle over the universe's lousy sense of humor - the bidet? Really? But only very very brief, because lord knows I have whole host of indignities to look forward to when I give birth (See also: "Yes, you might actually shit yourself during labour..." Great. Can't wait.)
I am proud of the fact that I only have a minor FML bitch fit about living out in BFE with fuck all around us. The neighborhood pharmacy is closed for their August holidays, and the only ones open would require some minorly epic travel on a couple of different bus lines. At 30 weeks preggo, in 35°+ weather and with my feet swelling like cocktail weiners, that is just asking for trouble.
In a pinch I could drive his car, but with no Italian driver's license the prospect makes me antsy. Not to mention that he is super-protective of his car. Though I am of a dwindling minority of Americans who know how to drive stick shift, diesel manual transmissions in the US died an ugly death in the 70's, well before I got my license. The last time he left me sitting in the car double parked with instructions to move it if necessary, I discovered that a manual diesel doesn't require you to even touch the accelerator when you hit the clutch's friction point - it'll just jump forward like a car possessed. Motherfuck did that ever scare the shit out of me and I am still thankful there was no other car in front of me.
I'd really rather not drive his car unless I have to cart him to the ER...
Mon Amour calls his brother, who lives about 30 minutes outside of Rome, to see if he will bring him some supplies from the pharmacy. His brother is apparently too busy fighting with his wife and refuses.
I have not even delved into the insanity of his family here, but suffice to say that Mon Amour is expected to drop everything and run to resolve whatever happens to be the family crisis of the day. I am seriously seriously fucked off on his behalf that it is never ever reciprocated.
While Mon Amour dozes with an ice pack on his back, I manage to get a hold of Olive after about a hour, and after I do some Googling to find a pharmacy open near her house, she heroically makes the trek out to our abode in BFE with back pain gel and those enormous back pain plasters. During the long trek out here, she reads the information inserts in the gel, which is fortuitous as it turns out women in their third trimesters aren't supposed to use the gel. Luckily we have some disposable rubber gloves lying around.
Olive, total champ that she is, spends the night just in case I need help maneuvering Mon Amour around. We head to the grocery store to buy comfort food for Mon Amour, namely hamburgers for dinner and Kinder Chocolates and chocolate filled snack cakes for whenever.
Due to the heat, Mon Amour had been dressed in only his boxer briefs when his back first spasmed and up until dinner, had remained thus out of necessity. As I began guiding him to the living room for dinner, he stops in front of the dresser and semi-grunts at me to open it up.
My baby wants his Superman t-shirt. "Così mi da i super poteri..."