Tale of the Broken Butt

November 6, 2012

So. I broke my butt this weekend. It’s rather embarrassing to break your butt. You want to know what’s even more embarrassing? This is the second time in my life that I’ve broken my butt.

What can I say? I am clumsy and a clod. I trip over every electrical cord in the house, crash into ceramic counter tops and run into hefty doors on a regular basis. There’s a reason that I never rode a bicycle as a child. Too filled with peril, riding a bicycle.

The first time I broke my butt, I was schussing down the slopes in Russia, shoulder-to-shoulder with James Bond, deflecting bullets from very athletic and determined villains while still keeping my makeup intact.

What? You never knew that I was an extra in “From Russia, With Love?”

Okay, at least I can truthfully say that ButtGate #1 did involve ice, wind and a pair of really rockin’ high heels.

ButtGate #2? Not so glamorous.

I was already at a disadvantage this round, because I’d been nursing an angry, crimson elbow for days. I finally complained to my husband about it, and he took one look and said, “Oh. Bursitis.”

Bursitis? Really? Okay, just fetch me my AARP card, bottle of Geritol and walker now, because I am going down, readers. I’m polishing up my pinocle skills as we speak, because the nursing home cannot be far off.

Then he looked at my other elbow and said, “Huh. I think it’s coming in that one, too.”


Bummer about ButtGate#2: No little black dress or sexy high heels. It’s a couple of elbows ensconced in ace bandages and ice packs. Attractive!

Secret Bonus to Buttgate#2: I was so awash in self-pity that nobody expected me to cook dinner. Take those little unexpected benefits and run with ‘em, ladies.

Since I wasn’t cooking, my family sat at the kitchen counter, on bar stools, (casual mode), munching takeout. I felt better already.

As we enjoyed our repast, our new kitty, Aria, spied something interesting/alarming/objectionable outside, gave a vociferous “Yeowwww!” and launched herself into the stratosphere like John Glenn.

I choked on a French fry, whirled violently around on my bar stool, and then the whole business came crashing down. On my ass. On hardwood floors.

Hi, my name is Dana. I have broken my butt twice in my lifetime. I am full of pride.

I am also putting these weirdo hot/cold compresses (intended for back pain) on my butt. The first night of ButtGate#2, I woke up at three a.m. and thought to myself, “Why the Hell do I have Miss D.’s swimming cap in my hand?” Not a swimming cap. Somehow, in my sleep, I’d ripped my swanky compress off and was clutching it in a death grip.

I’d like to think that I was having a dream about strangling Gwyneth Paltrow, but I was too drugged up to remember.


Tailbone: 2

Dana: 0

The coccyx wins.

Hope you (and your healthy hind ends) have a good week, dear readers. I am sitting on my newly purchased and very sexy donut thingy, elbows wrapped, pondering my demise. Well, actually, not that last item–there’s leftover Halloween candy to consume.



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