So, I have sort of a problem. A very yucky one. To be more specific, an infection that sounds very much like “Black Adder” but without the “ack.” Also without Rowan Atkins in his 16th century outfits, which I might as well admit now, have always made me sort of hot. Mr. Bean, not so much, but BlackAdder, I’m all about. But not this infection. No, no. It’s the worst.

I have been unnaturally lucky in my Lady Area, I have had reason to find out. I waltzed into work on Tuesday and noticed that I’d gone to the bathroom about once every five minutes. “Hey!” I said to my co-workers. “What’s the deal with my going to the bathroom every five minutes?” I didn’t say “pee” or “go potty” or “take a piss” because I am very classy, you see.

No one even blinked. “You have a UTI” said my boss. My boss is the mother of three and very smart about this sort of thing. “No I don’t.” I told her. “I’ve never had one of those before.” She listed off the symptoms and I went “Yeah, okay, I have that. And that. And, oh, man, definitely that. I don’t think I have a UTI though.” She rolled her eyes and told me to call my doctor. “It’s a very common thing,” she said.

And that’s where my problems began. I can’t even tell you how much pain I was in, and what a horrible idea it was to stop at Whole Foods to get cranberries before I went to the park and ride. Every time I went to the bathroom I did that thing where I tried to take a deep cleansing breath and it came out a high-pitched shriek of pain. Awful. Awful. I dragged myself into the doctor and shrieked some more and then when a nurse finally came in she was like, “Yeah, that’s quite an infection you have there.” Great. This is what happened with the Nose Funk. They must love me at that office. I got a prescription for antibiotics and for…um, avert your eyes, those of you who are squeamish…pills that dye your pee orange. Well, not your pee. My pee, to be completely frank. It’s a little worrisome, this orange pee, but I have to say it’s quite festive in a horrible sort of way.

I took my antibiotics and my orange pee pills and things got marginally better, but then yesterday when I was at a very nice canalside Mexican restaurant…my boss made me go home as she did not want a thrower-upper to be in her office space with her. I sniffled on the bus (“Please please please don’t let me throw up on the bus. Please please please don’t let me throw up on the bus. Please please please don’t let me throw up on the bus.”) and broke out into full-on tears in the car on the way home. There was nothing for it but to get into bed and take a long sweaty feverish nap, which was only interrupted by the dudes downstairs for me practicing for their GWARtribute band. I called the doctor’s office again. I told the nurse my name and she said, “Oh, are you that girl with the REALLY BAD bladder infection? Oh, yeah. You need to get on that right away.” She said she’d give me a new prescription for some heftier antibiotics but it didn’t make me feel much better since I couldn’t get out of bed.

You know how time stops sometimes, when you’re sick? Click click click goes the clock. You toss feverishly from side to side. There’s no cool side to the pillow. You kind of want some yogurt but the fridge seems so far away and oh, no, do you have to pee again? Owwwww. I think I may have actually cried out aloud for my mother to come and put a cold compress on my head.

But it was Carl who stepped into the breach. Personal difficulties aside, he was right there for me when I began to pray for death to take me away or at least make it so I never had to excrete any body waste again, ever. Which I guess amounts to the same thing from a biological point of view. He busted up to my place all in his biking tights (“I want to diiiieeeeeee…hey, you look good in those pants….oh just let me diiieeeeeee”) and delivered more Orange Pee pills, made me a starchy bland dinner, got me several drinks of water, did the dishes, put my movie in for me and moved the TV so I could reach it without getting out of bed, went to the drugstore to get my new antibiotic prescription brought me a cold compress and tucked me up into bed with all 89850840 blankets folded in a fan shape to facilitate my pulling them up as my fever gave way to chills. He was very good to me. He did not laugh when I told him about all my bladder-related misadventures, much of which are too horrible for me to mention here on the internet. I was so grateful.

I slept in this morning and staggered into work around noon, slightly worse for wear, certainly, but appreciably better. I regaled my mostly sympathetic office-mates with the entire story and they did me the favor of nodding at the appropriate times (“And then when I called the doctor’s office, the nurse said ‘Are you the girl with the REALLY BAD bladder infection?’”) I’m feeling better and may even feel up to going out this weekend. Isn’t that a happy ending?

Now, all that remains is for me to decide whether or not to actually post an entry about my bladder in my online journal that other people occasionally read. I’m afraid that if you do you will no longer take me for the mysterious and glamorous sex goddess of your dreams, but instead for an achy whiny teary girl in red sneakers and a hoodie cardigan who occasionally, um, excretes in an orangish fashion. Will that kill the romance? Oh, all right, you win. I won’t post this. Trying to keep the magic alive, you know.

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