Greetings and Sallytations!
So, Mark and I continue to heal from our wicked winter of medical mayhem. He’s never ever had back troubles and something went out of whack that caused him severe pain in an area he never had experienced before—his lower back and upper buttocks.
Sitting was torture and the only slight relief he could get was walking about 4 miles every day. He got a lot of funny looks when he went to a restaurant and ate his dinner standing up.
I couldn’t help him much with my busted wrist. Then, my wrist gets better and I get this Influenza Alphabet. I’m setting the stage for this first story.
So, Mark just can’t cope with the chronic pain and he’s lying on the exam table at the doctor’s office when she decides to give him a shot of prednisone to help with back pain. She gets serious and says to him, “You know, this drug could affect your sex life.”
I had a hard time keeping a straight face between coughing up a lung, holding my cast up and looking at him unable to walk or move without cringing in pain. I told the doctor to go ahead and give him the shot and help me shop for a Hoyer Lift system when we get home.
What really got me shaking my head was, when we got home, Mark told me that he didn’t realize that he was being recognized as a “stud muffin” by a doctor no less, and that he’d better be careful at the beach and pool when he would again be able to “strut his stuff.” I almost passed out laughing when he said he had decided against going shopping for Speedo swim trucks due to the overpowering effect it might have on women when they see him in one.
This excess couching is not helping my poor bladder. My bladder has had enough holding up for all the countless sneezes, nonstop coughing and these laughing fits. Any lady over the age of 60 can agree with me on this. I’m not sure if I’m ready for Depends, but this is getting old. My bladder has put up the SOS flag.
We bopped over to Walmart to pick up a supply of vitamins and a variety of overthe counter (OTC) items to help get me on the mend. While we’re waiting to pay, my husband notices the man in front of us has very strong calves. Of course, he had to ask him how his legs got that strong.
Well, the man just got out of prison and told us all about his fitness plan—walking the steps and working out. We got a 15-minute tale about his days in prison and how bad the food was. He had people sending him money to buy snacks. He gained 75 pounds in prison. Well, there goes that weight loss plan.
You had to be in line to get his life story. I just sat there in disbelief listening to this unusual tale of prison life. Then, he went on to share his future plans now that he’s free. All in a Walmart lane.
As we walked away, I asked Mark, “Why haven’t you ever noticed my calves?” They are more muscular than the prison guy. He said he didn’t feel that it would be a compliment to tell his wife that she has bigger, stronger legs than guys in the slammer. He also said my calves were very nice, which was lucky for him since he would have gone from stud muffin to dud muffin when my inner Lorena Bobbitt was unleashed.
So, we’ve been finding plenty of fresh seafood down here in Naples. One treat Mark loves are oysters. I dread when he orders them as I can’t stand the way they look, their smell, the texture … you name it. I just don’t get what people see in oysters.
The last time we went out and he had his plate of oysters, I put my hands in front of my eyes, I turned the other way, I looked up—kind of like what the women at the pool would do if they saw him in a Speedo.
I did everything in my power to remain calm and patient until he finished slurping them up. The server then came to our table to ask me if everything was OK. She thought we were having a spat. So, I explained the oyster saga and she chuckled. I need a plan B. I think I should just excuse myself for 10 minutes and let him enjoy them in peace without my histrionics.
I just discovered oysters are an aphrodisiac. Maybe Mark’s trying to counteract the prednisone. Just another day of paradise living the dream being retired in Florida. Over and out for this week. My bladder is calling.
Sally Yuccas lives in Virginia, MN, and winters in Naples, FL.