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Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 16, 2000 || 10:36 pm

When I was two-and-a-half, I shattered my right femur. Well, not really shattered as such, but broke the almighty shit out of it in several places. Back then it was the same as shattered….

Anyway, two-and-a-half, badly broken femur, lengthy hospital stay (3 months), most of it in traction so as not to dislocate my hip or further discombobulate my little body. Eight weeks afterward in a body cast. Parents hadda teach me to walk and potty train me all over again. There are several enriching humorous stories (lengthy and not-so-long) that are attached to the bigger picture, but this is not one of them. Nosiree, those are for another time. This story is an ongoing offshoot of that early happening.

Several things in my adulthood are related to this leg breakage thingy.

For instance, my right leg is a full inch shorter than my left. Not that it really matters all that much, because I am pretty leggy. I don’t have to mourn that inch from a stature standpoint, or anything. Because of this imbalance in leg length, my back loses alignment, so every so often I am couched for a couple days at a time, quite literally not able to move. In cases of sudden weather change, I am at a great advantage, because a temporary throbbing in that gimp leg (as the family so jokingly refers to it) gives me a bit of a ‘leg up’ *HARHAR*. Gramma always said that I was the best barometer that she had ever known. And that little hitch in my git-along was largely misconstrued as a come-hither sashay (or maybe I can accredit that to the large boobs, I dunno…) But disregard all that. What I am here to talk about is the pain.

When I gets too dang cold, mostly in a humid-like cly-mutt, mah here laig goes ta achin’ me sumpin’ pyreful. No shit. That shit hurts, mang. The kind of hurt that says, “Hey, since I can’t go away, I might as well fucking spread the wealth around.” So here it goes to my hip, on into my other hip, and down my other thigh. If I am REAL lucky, my knees get invited to the party. w00t!

Since we moved into this new house, I have been hurting a little. Now and then. Okay, a LOT. Like every fucking day. Every night and every morning until I get up and get around. After an hour or so of movement, it abates. BUT, in all honesty, I am less inclined to go to the gym and get on the treadmill if my hips and legs ache like an old fucking swaybacked mule.

The reason for this sudden change? My husband keeps the heat hovering around the motherfucking 66-degree mark. I go turn it up, he turns it down. I comply quietly, he turns it further down.

In all fairness, he doesn’t know about the pain that I am caused by the cold, because I am not the type to run around bitching about how uncomfortable I am. I know that we are in a new, much larger place and he is worried (as always) about expenses; he’s trying to cut corners so that we can do the things that we want to do when and where we want to do them. I do, however, go around grumbling. I say, “MOtherFUCK, it’s COLD in here. SHIT!” and other colorful catchphrases in that same vein.

But NO MORE, I tell you; NO MORE!!!!

Tonight I went into the laundry room to iron a pair of pants and I discovered that the iron had been on the ‘high’ setting all day. 12 hours’ worth of day, to be exact. I credit you here with the ability *perhaps dangerously so* to figure out who it was that left the thing on.

No more Ms. Nice Babe. No more, “Well, we really SHOULD leave the heat at fifty degrees, because there are starving kids in Ethiopia in desperate NEED of a little more electricity to power their ice cream freezers, not to mention the fact that our government gave them all of those plug-in toothbrushes…..”

No WAY. I jacked the heat up to 70 and snarled at him, “My sonofabitching legs HURT, and if you want any pussy from ME this winter, 70 is where this damned thing will ByGod STAY“.

Clarity of communication. That’s all a marriage really needs.

Really.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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