(originally published November 5, 2008)
“Why are you limping?” my husband, the ever-so-vigilant physical therapist, asked that evening.
“My butt hurts,” I replied and shuffled into the kitchen to search for a yet-to-be-discovered bag of leftover Halloween candy.
“And your butt hurts because…?” he continued, cocking his head to the side to get a better angle of my injured hindquarters.
I stopped to mumble, “Stupid wee.”
“Huh?” he answered. “Did you just say something about ‘wee’?”
Yes. Yes, I did. And it wasn’t nearly as fun as the word would usually imply.
Hah! More like whoa.
“I kinda…maybe…sorta…pulled…something yesterday,” I answered, hoping rather fruitlessly that it would be the end of the interrogation and I could quietly slink away with the newly acquired bag of M&Ms I’d just discovered in the cabinet under the sink. I held the bag up to my nose and took a great big whiff of its chocolaty goodness. Score!
“So what exactly did you pull and how did you pull it?” my husband continued, relentlessly pursuing his line of none-of-your-bee’s-wax questioning.
Geesh! Shine a light in my eye, already! Bring on the Chinese water torture!
Another big sigh. I’d never make it past the noogies.
Time to get this off my chest…er…butt.
“What’s this part called right here?” I asked and turned to point to the left side of my rump. “Isn’t this my gluteus maximus or something?”
“Well, actually that particular area is your gluteus medius,” Mr. Smarty Pants answered. “It’s a little to the side of your gluteus maximus.”
Shows how much attention I paid in anatomy class. Oh, wait. I was a communications major. I didn’t have to take an anatomy class.
I did, however, take a very challenging earth sciences course that required me to color a complex diagram of the photosynthesis process. With crayons. From the 64-count box. I got an A.
Man, I love a liberal arts education.
“Well, whatever the stupid thing is it hurts,” I stated. “And for what it’s worth, it’s your fault.”
Mr. Smarty Pants snorted beer out of his nose before whining, “What did I do?”
“If you were a better Wii bowler, I wouldn’t be in this predicament,” I said.
Silence. For a short moment before the light bulb flashed above his head.
“Ah, you didn’t mean ‘wee’ before. You meant Wii,” he said.
As in Nintendo Wii. The all-out video game where we tested our athletic ability in a marathon session of tennis, bowling, baseball, golf, lawn darts and synchronized swimming.
OK. I may have made up those last two, but you get the picture.
It was a competition. And it was fierce.
Spiking each other’s drinks with banned substances kinda fierce just in case the International Wii Committee knocked on our door for a random drug test.
Calling a time out and taking the batteries out of his controller when he was on the toilet kinda fierce.
Shoving somebody over the back of the couch during a back-handed tennis shot kinda fierce.
Not saying…I did…any of those things. I’m just speculating on the types of things that could occur when two competitive people live under the same roof.
“So you’re telling me you pulled a muscle from playing a video game,” he snickered.
“No, I did not!” I shouted in self-defense. Then quietly added, “I pulled it while performing my victory dance after I beat you at bowling.”
And I turned around, demonstrated a replay of the little shaky-shake before pain seized the lower half of my body and I keeled over onto the couch. Oh, dear God. So much pain.
Where’s my chocolate?!
“You are so lame,” my husband laughed.
In more ways than one, I thought. But I didn’t care. I had won. At least the bowling part.
We won’t discuss what happened during lawn darts.
Let’s just say the television repairman will be here on Tuesday.