Too Much of a Good Thing

Last week was crazy busy–hectic clinics, work meetings, make up gymnastics for the girls. By the time Wednesday morning rolled around, I was beat. The first half of my week was so busy that by 1 pm on Tuesday my lying ass of a brain was telling me tomorrow was Friday, an act of mutiny I quite frankly find unconscionable.

In order to lift my spirits for the long day ahead, I decided to wear one of my favorite dresses. Seeing as how I had not shaved my legs since Hanukah, I grabbed a pair of tights and struggled into them. They seemed a little snug which puzzled me until I looked at the package to discover they were control top. I never intentionally buy control top hose because they give me gas. They always make me feel like an amateur magician is sawing my body in half with a rusty butter knife. Despite this fact, I was not willing to have anyone mistake me for Zach Galifianakis, so I decided to leave the tights on. I yanked some Spanx up over them because this is a great way to keep my hose up and not have to wear a slip. Genius, I know. When I do this with regular legwear it works like a charm. The demonic control top tights, however, had a very different effect. By lunchtime I was acutely uncomfortable. I had begun to lose feeling in my knees and was having trouble breathing,  but I bravely soldiered on.

As I headed to the parking deck after 6 p.m., I managed to find an unoccupied place to finally expel some gas. As the flatus struggled to escape my shrink-wrapped anatomy, it slithered up my backside and immediately became lodged in the 2 inch gap between the rolled up rim of my God forsaken control top tights and the waistband of my Spanx. This was a piece of real estate in which I simply could not afford to lose a single millimeter, never mind whatever absurd volume of space that bubble was occupying. It was at this point that my spleen snapped up like a roller shade and took refuge under my rib cage. Flummoxed, I struggled to stride nonchalantly across the parking deck while  pounding my fist into my lower back to release the offending ether. A fellow employee briefly considered asking me if I was having a seizure, but apparently reconsidered after seeing the grimace of consternation on my face. As I lifted my briefcase into the car,  the gaseous cloud finally slipped its earthly bonds and ascended to the heavens. Unfortunately, this did little to ease my discomfort.

I drove to my next obligation, despairing of the fact that it would be another hour and half before I could undress. As I sat politely listening to the evening’s discourse,  I could not escape the sensation that my hip joints were encircled by zip ties which were being inexorably tightened by an invisible troll. To make matters worse, my skulking spleen got into a fight with my pancreas which was now also seeking asylum. The pressure under my ribs was becoming unbearable.

I raced home and disrobed as hastily as possible. I plunged into the hot tub, feeling grateful for my back pain which caused us to buy the thing. I took my first full breath in 14 hours and delighted in allowing myself to man-spread, arms and legs sprawling like an great bloated starfish. I floated about aimlessly, my flabby bits wiggling in the jets, entirely consumed by the sensation of bodily freedom. After several minutes, feeling was restored to my knees. My belly expanded, finally able to relax. Gradually my spleen, encouraged by the warmth and my enlarging midsection, reluctantly vacated my chest cavity, allowing my left lung to reclaim its space. My pancreas also managed to collect itself and quietly resumed pumping out insulin, muttering, “sorry, dude”, as it slithered home past my spleen.

Only when I was certain that my habitus had been fully restored did I dare to haul myself out of the water and up to bed. I lay in bed, exhausted. As I reviewed my day, I was quite pleased with the fact that I did not lose any limbs for want of circulation. I felt a quiet sense of calm as I envisioned the tights stuffed securely in the trash can, never again to plague my torso. “Next time,” I promised myself as I yawned,  “I think I’ll shave my legs.”