When I came out of that joint, I was absolutely drenched in woman sweat--stinky, fetid woman stench. Yummm.
I had to sweat out all the crap I had ingested the day before. Besides, the sauna is a lot easier to tolerate than the whirlpool filled with the old fat women. So, I sat. And I leaked bodily fluid all over myself. I don't think Mike Tyson after a fight has sweat as much as me in the sauna.
Then, I went on a motorcycle ride for about two and half hours. Here in Georgia, it was about 78 degrees. Add a motorcycle jacket to THAT plus full face helmet, gloves, and leather boots, it's roughly 99 degrees. Guess what? I sweated some more.
We come home. We bought a grill. We grilled out on the driveway, beneath the stars. Michael grilled hotdogs and hamburgers, and I've never eaten anything as sumptious as charcoal grilled beef on a bun. Mmm.
Did you know that severe dehydration causes constipation? No? Well, now you do. Kids, drink your damn water.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in the bathroom. I'm dying. This kind of pain can only occur once in a woman's life, and she's supposed to be passing something more interesting than poo through her legs. Unfortunately, I'm unable to pass anything. I crawl to the bed, huddle into a fetal position, and pray for death to take me. Let me tell you: constipation is no laughing matter. When the intestines have crawled into the vacuum of your diaphragm and twinge in cruel agony, you don't want to laugh. When your anus is quivering in trauma, you can't laugh. And when you finally request your dearly beloved to go to the local drugstore to pick up an enema, you're in no place for dignity.
Michael saved the day. He rescued me from death. He travelled far into the night to retrieve the Holy Grail of enemas. And when he returned, I doth applied and vundabar! Sweet relief.
But let me tell you, no one is going near the bathroom for a good long while. Ahhhhhhh.
