{{{HOT}}} Tub

Once upon a time, there was a wonderful generous husband who bought his wife a hot tub, it was delivered to their home, they plugged it in by the pool and they lived happily ever after.  The End.

If anything in our lives ever goes so smoothly, I'll be rendered speechless.  But in the meantime, I blog.

The story begins accurately.  There was a wonderful generous husband who bought his wife a hot tub. 
And then things went all...'Courter-Style.'

The purchasing of the hot tub went exactly as I'd expected.  Meaning, the salesman made an immediate (bordering on creepy) connection with my husband and began telling him his life story, complete with a mid-sentence belch, followed by his detailed explanation of the spicy sub he ate for lunch.  I'm so accustomed to people latching onto my husband's ear that I never leave home without a library book and have no problem making myself comfortable until their lengthy convo finally comes to a blessed end.  (You might be surprised to learn I'm not what you'd call a people-person...more details on that coming soon to a blog near you.)  Two hours of reading later, Ron was helping me out of the display model and we were on our way.

The delivery date arrived, but the hot tub did not.  We did however receive a phone call from the delivery company asking us if our hot tub would break if they turned it on it's side.  Let's not find out, okay?  The pool company intervened and successfully delivered our hot tub, right side up, the following day.  I answered the door in my pajamas, because I didn't realize I'd need to answer the door at all, but apparently they needed me to show them where it goes.  "See that brand new giant plastic outlet box on the back of the garage?  Well, there it goes."  And my fuzzy flannel Hello Kitty jammies and I bolted back inside.

That night, Ron filled the hot tub, put the chemicals in, and cranked it to 105.
...And then it heated up and we lived happily ever after.  

In your world, maybe.  Not mine.  In my world, I suggested to Kearstin that we go outside and feel the water the next day.  In my world, I unclipped the lid and watched the steam rise from the beautiful clear water.  In my world, I plunged my entire arm deep within the inviting surface.  And then my world got jolted with volts of electricity that started with my arm and ended with a thump in my chest that landed me straight on my ass with a thud beside my hot tub.  It was my unremembered scream of profanity that stopped Kearstin barely fingertip deep and spared her the electricity-induced backward flight to the ground. 
You're welcome.

To add insult to injury, I looked down to see a bloody gnawed off raccoon paw that our dog brought in from the fields laying right beside my hand.  (Cue profanity #2 and violent gagging.)
Welcome to my world.

Ron arrived home from work and said he'd check it out.  And by "check it out" he meant taking off the cover and plunging both of his arms into the water.  And to my surprise and horror, he not only stayed on his feet, but yelled, "It's fine!  Come try it!!"  And then he tried to convince Kearstin and I that we didn't really get shocked.  "The water was probably just sooo hot" he said, as he happily splashed his arms around.  Hey super-mudder, I don't know why you're not lying in a pile of your own drool right now, but not on your freakin life am I putting my body or any of my children into that hell tub.  Then I glanced down at the rubber soled boots on his feet. 

A minute later, my barefoot husband stuck his hand in the water, yelled "son of a ....!" and started making phone calls.  That's better.

The electrician came the following day and fixed the problem.  It seems there was a broken ground.  (Referring to wires within our walls, not the spot on the concrete where my butt landed.)

Friday, two guys from the pool company showed up to make sure it wasn't a malfunction with the tub itself.  They knocked on the door and called me outside.  They showed me how they tested the water with their fancy machinery and said "it all looks good" and tried to convince me that it was safe to use and one even tried to get me to touch the water.  I firmly explained that he will never get me or my fuzzy Hello Kitty jammies anywhere near that water.

Then he asked me, "What do I need to do to convince you to use this hot tub your husband bought you?"
I glanced down at his boots.  Well, since you're asking...

Two minutes later, his young assistant was hesitantly stripping off his boots and socks, stepping into a puddle of rainwater and hovering his arms over the hot tub trying desperately to look confident about what he was about to do while I moved off to the side so he wouldn't land on me in a heap of chattering teeth and steaming flesh.  (When it comes to electricity, you can never be too dramatic.)  Just as his fingertips touched the water, the other guy...the one willing to sacrifice his own assistant...made a loud "ZZZZZT" noise from his mouth.  I'm not sure who crapped their pants worse, but my money's on the assistant who jerked his arms out of the water faster than I covered my head with my hands and screamed.

I informed 'zzzt guy' that he's a terrible human being because I felt like he had a right to know.  He said, "I have an ex-wife who'd completely agree with you."  I didn't find that news anywhere near as shocking as the tub of death we'd just purchased for our backyard.

But all hope is not lost.  One week later, there is finally a happy ending to this Courter-Style fairy tail:

....and then her wonderful generous husband bought her something to put her mind at ease and she donned her rubber swim fins and floated happily ever after.  The End. 

Well, hopefully not the end end, ya know?

That Phase Of Life

Recently I've had people ask me, "Why aren't you blogging as often?"

The easy answer would be the busyness of life that everyone can relate to.  And that would be partly true.  But a slightly more accurate answer would be that this year I've been smacked in the forehead with a phase of life...or should I say, multiple...

In January, my best friends talked me into joining Pinterest.  Not fully comprehending how it worked, I 'Liked' and 'Repinned' every single pin they sent me, regardless of how f-bomb-dropping-inappropriate, without realizing that anyone and everyone could see it.  I set a record for most followers lost within the first 3 days of joining and realized that I'm in that embarrassing phase of life where I say, 'Those young whippersnappers and their fandangled technology" as I unknowingly drag a string of toilet paper from the back of my stretchy pants.

In February, I took my daughter Aubrey shopping for her wedding dress.  That night, my best friend Lissa came over and we squeezed ourselves into our old wedding dresses and then the 3 of us ate pizza while everyone made fun of the super-cool-puffy-sleeves on my 21 year old dress. It occurred to me then that I'm suddenly in that inevitable phase of life where half of my children are grown adults moving on to start families of their own...and my totally awesome wedding dress resembles something out of the wardrobe closet on the set of Falcon Crest.

In the wee hours of March 1st, Caymen brought me a baby doll as Zac and Barbara watched from the couch.  I took the doll into my hands, noticed the pregnancy test attached to the front and realized I'm going to be a Grandma.  Ron saw the test and whipped his head around to me with an accusatory look mixed with sheer panic before I put his mind at ease with, "Dude. That's not our stick."
We're just in that confusing phase of life where we could either have a baby, or a grand baby.

Twelve hours later, Ron and I were checking into a hotel for a quick getaway carrying only toothbrushes and multiple packs of Oreos because we're in that selfish phase of life where a getaway sometimes means we just don't want to share our snacks with the kids.

At dinner that night, Ron ordered a beer and I ordered a margarita.  The waitress asked me for my id.  I thanked her for the flattering formality, explained that I didn't bring my purse, and then told her please and thank you hold the salt on my rim as I handed her the menu.  And then she refused me my drink.  Torn between hugging her and strangling her, I began rambling about Oreos and pregnancy tests before she eventually agreed to let me prove my age by showing her my date of birth on my Facebook page.  Five minutes later, she returned without my drink and said, "You're not an undercover cop, are you?"  No, you see, I'm just in that all-too-temporary-phase of life where I'm either a 42 year old grandma or an underage drinker trying to pull a fast one on a Red Lobster waitress.

The following week, I was sitting in a tiny 1st grade chair across a tiny table from Caymen's teacher as she said she'd like to ask me a personal question.  (Oh gosh.)  She went on to say that Caymen arrived at school and announced to the class that she had very important news about her family, (Oh...no...worst...nightmare...ever) and then excitedly proclaimed, "MY MOTHER-IN-LAW IS PREGNANT!!!"  Holy crap, I'm in that humiliating phase of life where my 6-year old's teacher has to ask me who exactly is pregnant at home.

Three weeks ago, I was sitting at the bar at an adult version of Chuckie Cheese reading a library book while the kids played arcade games for Aubrey's birthday, because as it turns out, I've entered an intolerant phase of life where I don't function well with noise...or people. 

One week later, Caymen was sobbing as we were leaving for her 7th birthday party at the bowling alley and Ron yelled, "STOP CRYING ON YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!!" followed by Kearstin quoting Clark Griswold, "We're the hap hap happiest family this side of the nuthouse."  I think we've entered into that unstable phase of life where we should probably reconsider public parties.

Last week we went shopping for supplies for my new home office.  (aka; Zac's old bedroom.)  I found a beautiful wall hanging, but the back was badly damaged.  I sent Ron to ask if they'd knock the price down to $5.  He returned and said, "The lowest they'll go is $10 or they're throwing it away."  WTH?  As we returned to the front counter, I asked him how he played it.  "Good Cop" he said.  So I put on my Bad Cop face as we approached the manager, but before I could say a word, Good Cop blurted out, "I'm sorry about this."  So I simply handed her the wall hanging and said, "I guess you can go ahead and pitch this."  Clearly we're in that PDA (public-displays-of-anger) phase of life where we're not above fighting in the Big Lots parking lot.

Two hours later, I was waiting at the front doors of the gym when Ron exited the locker room and extended his hand.  "Here, I found this in the sleeve of my shirt" and he handed me my black satin thong as the front desk worker's jaw dropped.

Hey.  We're in a phase of life.  We're not dead.

 

Boys To Men



I didn't see it coming.

Twenty years ago, I gave birth to my 6 lb 11 oz baby boy on New Year's Day via C-section because he was completely upside down and sideways with his tiny feet up beside his even tinier ears.  They handed me this little bundle nicknamed 'Little Man' and
I didn't see it coming.

From day 1, this Little Man deeply and permanently wove his way into my life and my heart.  The many nights spent playing because he preferred sleeping during the day.  The countless hours swinging him on a rope over a giant pit of foam at Mommy & Me tumbling classes or sitting in a chair every Saturday at Tae Kwon Do watching him diligently work and then cheering through tears 7 years later when he turned and grinned at me with the Black Belt wrapped around his waist.  I still didn't see it coming.

This charming young man, whose quick wit and sense of humor will either win you over...or piss you off.  It seemed to have the adverse effect on his elementary school art teacher, his high school music teacher and the National Honor Society at large. 
Wow.  Really didn't see that coming.

But I'm enamored with him.  This boy who keeps me guessing. 
One minute he's making (terrifying) candid videos of our family; the next he's talking complicated Engineering lingo with his dad.
One minute he's juggling flaming torches and blowing fire across the top of his car in the driveway; the next he's preparing and cooking our Thanksgiving turkey.
One minute he's complaining about what I'm making for dinner; the next he's crawling into bed beside me to sleep while I do my bible study.
One minute he's chasing me with my home electrodes threatening to put them on my chest to "see what happens"; the next he's driving to pick me up when I'm running on our back country roads alone because he was worried about me.
One minute he's sitting on the tiny chair surrounded by pictures of Mickey Mouse trying to convince me that a 19 year old shouldn't still be going to the Pediatrician; the next he's rummaging through the sucker basket at the check-out counter complaining that I didn't intervene during " that violent throat swab."
One minute he's instructing me not to say a word while he negotiates the purchase of his new car at the dealership; the next he's tossing me the keys so I can test drive it to the nearest empty parking lot and teach him how to drive a stick shift before he signs the paperwork.
One minute our softball coach is threatening to separate us in the outfield because we won't stop fighting; the next he's threatening to separate us if we don't stop laughing.  Nothing bonds us together like seeing a batter get nailed with a pitch. 
Oh, snap!  We didn't see that coming! 

One minute I was driving him home from church youth group; the next he was saying, "There's this girl.  Her name is Barbara."  One minute he was refusing to order his own food at a restaurant because he doesn't like to talk in front of people; the next he was hijacking the microphone in front of 500 people at the church's chili cook off  to ask Barbara to prom and offer her his class ring. 

Then I started to see it coming...

Zac moved out last month.  While it's the natural course of life that God intended and I'm eternally grateful for the 20 years I had him home with me, it was heartbreaking nonetheless.  Not only for me, but for little Caymen who couldn't imagine life without her big brother in the bedroom right beside hers.  One minute he's teasing her in the kitchen...the next, they're crying together as he cradles her on the top bunk in her room and then took a black sharpie and drew a promise to each other above the door.  She didn't see it coming.

One minute, I'm silently sobbing alone in my bedroom...the next I'm being hugged by my future daughter-in-law as she whispers in my ear, "If it matters, I've never seen a son love his mom so much."  Oh, my sweet Barbara.  It matters.

On February 14th, 2014 my son married his first and only love, Barbara, in a private ceremony.  Much like every other couple, they have a special and beautiful story that is theirs and theirs alone to share, so I'll end my commentary with this: 

Dear Zac and Barbara,
As you venture out on this journey together, always remember that you'll never please everyone, and that's ok.  It's not your job.  If people tell you you're too young, I'll remind you that you're the age your dad and I were when we married 21 years ago.  If people tell you it's hard, I'll completely agree with them before reminding you that nothing of true value comes easy.  You're a family now and it's our honor to stand behind you and cheer you on in unconditional love and support.  Your love story is just beginning.   Stay focused on the Author of it, because He's the only one who knows how it all unfolds.  Enjoy every minute of the adventures He has planned for you, and keep your eyes open, because some of the best moments in life, you might never see coming.

I love you forever,
~Mom~

21.

Twenty-one years ago today, at the age of 21, I walked down an isle to take a vow before God that I would spend the rest of my life with my best friend.  Sounds simple enough, right? 

Let's be honest.  As we confidently repeated the words, 'For better or for worse,' we were actually thinking,
'And we'll live happily ever after.'

I wonder what would have gone through our heads that day if we were given a tiny glimpse into the future?

"Do Ron and Shari promise to love, honor, and cherish each other on the day that..." 

...Ron discovers Shari's gag reflex is as weak as her bladder.  Simultaneously.
...Shari is using the port-a-potty in the park and Ron backs the van up against the door, trapping her inside.  fyi; he'll also trap her inside revolving doors.
...Shari hoses down the living room with a fire extinguisher because she panicked when a candle broke.
...Shari's locking the door of the condo in Hilton Head and Ron sneaks up behind her, covers her mouth and pretends to be an attacker to "test her instincts." 
...Ron acknowledges that he is a people person, and that Shari is most definitely not.
...Ron tells Shari she sucks at first impressions.  And he's right.
...Ron has neck surgery and Shari poses his puke bag in inappropriate positions and takes pictures while he sleeps.
...Ron tries to teach their 5 year old how to ride without training wheels by sending her down a hill on her bike.  In the park.  While she's wearing a dress.  And a giant 4-wheeler helmet.
...Shari starts saying, "I want your honest opinion."  Ron starts responding, "Please don't make me play this game."
...Ron and their 12 year old son get escorted from a car dealership because he truly believed he was The Grand Prize Winner and when he found out that the post card was a ploy to get him to come buy a new car, he causes "a public disturbance." 
...Shari puts all the Cassanos leftover pizza on the roof of the van and forgets it's there.  Except she thinks Ron did it.  But she did it.  But she's convinced he did it.  He'll go to his grave knowing she did it.  And she'll go to hers believing he did it. 
..."Ron from New Carlisle" calls into a live radio talk show about sex to discuss his wife.
...it's discovered that when God brought Ron and Shari together, He ultimately created the complete embodiment of Good Cop, Bad Cop and that works to their advantage in almost any given situation.

 "Do Ron and Shari promise to love, honor and cherish each other on the day that..." 

...Ron begins to realize that Shari's brokenness goes far deeper than he ever knew.
...life takes it's toll and they come to a fork in the road where they ask each other if this is the end of 'Ron and Shari'...and on that same day decide that 'Ron and Shari' are worth the fight. 

Because Ron and Shari are 2 imperfect people, trying to raise 4 imperfect children, as an imperfect family, in an imperfect world, but whose stronghold is one perfect God.

Today.  We, Ron and Shari, look back on the previous 21 years of fun, laughter, tears, struggle, growth, change, turmoil, peace, failures, and successes and understand this truth:

We are living our Happily Ever After.

What God has joined together,

let no man separate.

~Mark 10:9~

Remembrance and Resolution, 2014

On September 14, 2013, I sat amongst thousands of women participating in a Beth Moore live simulcast that was broadcast around the world.  Every single thing she said that day is worthy of mention, but I'd never do it justice. 

So please forgive my very rough and simplified summation, and I take full responsibility for any misinterpretation.

Her message was that we need to stop living as a slave under the law, which brings shame and self-condemnation and start living under grace, which brings freedom and peace.  She clarified that this is not to condone sin, but rather to realize that there is nothing that cannot be covered by the blood of Christ, if only we accept Him and submit to Him.  Grace is not permission to stay in sin, it's our power to GO from it! 

We were given a True or False quiz.  One of the statements was,
"I have disappointed God."
Without hesitation, I didn't just write True, I wrote, 'Sooooo True.'  Do you realize how many people I've disappointed to the point of destruction?  Why should God be any different?

Then she read the definition.
Disappointed:  sad or displeased because someone has failed to fulfill one's hopes or expectations.

What she said next took me by such surprise that a small sob escaped me and tears ran down my cheeks.

"You have never disappointed God."

Think about that.  In order to disappoint God, we'd have to be clever enough to surprise Him and do something different than what He thought we'd do.  That's not to say He's not displeased with some of our choices, but that's only because He loves us, wants what's best for us and hates to see us hurt ourselves with our sin.  But disappointment is impossible because He already knows exactly what we're going to do at all times.  Disappointment is human.  We get disappointed.  Not God.

When you live under the law, you're never good enough. 
When you live under grace, He is enough.

She went on to explain that when we give our lives to Christ, we become new creatures, but for some reason, we continually try to resuscitate our old dead selves and seem determined to carry around a rotting corpse whose only purpose is to weigh us down with guilt and regret.

Toward the end, she shared a sweet story about her 3 year old granddaughter who received a pair of tap dancing shoes.  Having never been exposed to that style of dance, her mom didn't explain what the shoes were for, but rather sat back quietly to see what she would do with them.  After strapping them on, she went straight to the kitchen and tentatively stepped one foot to the hardwood floor and gently tapped before returning it to the safety of the carpet.  Then she repeated the action with the other foot before carefully walking to the middle of the kitchen floor.  Within a minute, she'd thrown all caution to the wind as she excitedly tapped her feet with a look of pure joy on her face.

She finished with this.  "Are you living your life in fear and regret?  Or are you dancing in joy and peace?"

Right there in my chair that day, I realized that Beth Moore described my 2013.

After ditching my 'corpse' in the hills of Kentucky at Tough Mudder in October 2012, I approached my new year with one philosophy: 
No more fear.  If God presents a door, I'll walk through it.

When you stop tip toeing on egg shells for fear of failure, it frees you to dance! 

As a result, my remembrance of 2013 is the year of breathless exhilaration, crazy adventures, opportunities and blessings I never would have even thought to pray for, and seemingly impossible dreams come true right before my very eyes.  None of which would have happened without the God who sees me as His beloved child...not a disappointment!

...God sent His Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, that we might receive adoption to sonship.  Because you are His sons, God sent the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, "Abba Father."  So you are no longer a slave, but God's child; and since you are His child, God has made you also an heir.  ~Galatians 4:4-7~

On the heels of the non-stop whirlwind of 2013, the only resolution I feel God telling me for 2014 is this:  Be still.

I don't know exactly what it means, but I've come to recognize His voice too clearly to question it.  I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean that I should withdraw from society and spend my days in solitude, tempting as that sounds sometimes.  But I'm reminded of something Joyce Meyer says.  "Until God tells you to do something new, just keep doing the last thing He told you to do."

So that's my plan for 2014.
I'll be still...while I dance...

Worth The Weight

A tiny hand full of people have seen my stomach these past 4 weeks and things were escalating to a fever pitch about Before and After pictures.  I won't call out the person who threatened to pull up my shirt Sunday at church.  You know who you are. 

I suspect not a word I write will even be read today, but here it goes anyway, as I conclude this Tummy Tuck series.  Unless of course situations develop in the future, but let's all hope that doesn't happen. 

This month of recovery has been full of things both expected and unexpected.  I knew going in that 'Official Recovery' was 4 solid weeks.  No more, no less.  When my doctor ordered, "4 weeks down" I thought to myself, "Well, he doesn't know me very well."  But apparently, he could smell my attitude a mile away because he followed it up with, "You'll do it if you want your money's worth."  Now, he's talking a language I understand.

My life came to an abrupt standstill.  I expected that.  What I didn't expect, was the opportunity to sit back and watch my family pull together...in every area not pertaining to my belly button, anyway.  And let me tell you, they successfully ran this place, complete with an entire delicious Thanksgiving meal for 20 people.  Did everything run like a well-oiled machine all month?  Of course not.  But it wouldn't have with me in charge, either.

As of Thursday December 12th, I have permission to return to life as normal and toss the list of forbidden activities out the window.  I followed the doctor's orders and for an entire month refrained from sleeping on my stomach, lying flat in the bed, lifting anything over 2-3 lbs, taking baths, work, exercise and sex...okay, maybe not all things were followed to the letter, and 3 days seemed appropriate. Let's not get ridiculous with our orders here, doc.

The hardest for me personally was not exercising.  Not because I felt good enough to do it, but because it required me to rely solely on diet for weight management.  I quickly realized how much I depend on the option to burn those extra eaten calories.  I can tell you right now, return to exercise will not be physically easy or painless, but I'll be relieved to retrain my body back into a strict daily regimen, because it would appear that I have a serious addiction to special dark chocolate chips eaten by the handful chased with a tiny scoop of natural peanut butter eaten from the end of a butter knife. Now we know.

I will also have permission to remove the Velcro girdle that day.  But, I won't be removing the Velcro girdle.  At least not yet.  It scares me when it's off.  I believe the phrase, Fear of freedom sums it up best.  That awful thing squeezed around my midsection like a boa constrictor has become like a child's security blanket and I suspect I'll need to wean myself from it accordingly.  Certainly didn't expect that.

According to the doctor, my stomach will continue losing swelling and changing for up to a year, so I've decided to document my recovery with pictures on a monthly basis.  I won't bore everyone with those each month, but I'll be more than happy to privately share them with anyone who's contemplating having the surgery or is simply interested in the continued healing process.

On a different note, I expected the extra blog readers tuning into this series out of morbid curiosity.  What I didn't expect was the flood of emails and messages in my inbox from women I both know and don't know, who asked questions and shared with me their testimonies of struggles, successes and failures.  Honored doesn't begin to describe each moment I open a message from a woman with the courage to confide their story with me, each one awe-inspiring in their own way.  I'm completely amazed with all of you and hope you continue updating me along your journeys. 

Back in 2002, at the age of 30, I stepped on a scale and saw the number 254.  I sure as heck didn't expect that.




Today, I turned 42.  My eyes have a few crows feet, there are laugh lines forming around my mouth and I don't even want to discuss the way my neck skin is starting to sag, not to mention my thighs. 

Fear not, I'm not on the slippery slope to a life spent on the surgeon's table.  I do not now, nor will I ever have the face or the body of a 20 year old and I didn't miraculously morph out of surgery a size 2.  But that wasn't my intent in having this procedure. 

Here we are in 2013 and for once in my life I'm not trapped in a 254 lb mindset.  For once in my life, I don't look in the mirror and see the pain of the journey hanging in the evidence of the loose misshapen skin.  And for once in my life, I look in the mirror and see only one scar reminding me of my surgery, rather than a multitude of scars reminding me of my past. 
Worth every bit of it.

With exception of some temporary crease marks from my tightly squeezed girdle, being slightly freaked out by my own belly button and suddenly having the option of bouncing a quarter off my new stomach skin, things are pretty much back to normal.

All in all, not much has changed around here and it feels pretty great to return to my role as a 42 year old, low-key, conservative mom and house wife preparing to send out our family's greeting cards.  So on that note: 

Merry Christmas...

From our normal family to yours!

Tuck In Roll

Part V:  Recovery, Week 3.

In light of how the first 2 weeks of recovery went, this 3rd week was downright boring.  (Granted, our standard of boring might be a little different than some.)  I traded my Vicodin for driving privileges, therefore, my life took on a slightly normal spin.  Which brings us to the main focus of week 3.  The horrid, thick, and itchy Velcro girdle. (Dramatic music here:  Duh duh duuuuh.)

I've made reference to the girdle, but when you have tucksticles, a girdle is the least of your concerns.  The girdle is mandatory 24/7 and I'm only allowed to remove it to take a shower.  It squeezes everything in, helps ever so slowly reduce some of the swelling, and overall gives me a sense of security.  (My new stomach scares the crap out of me half the time.)  But last week was Thanksgiving and I'd be seeing friends and family that spanned beyond our inner circle of 6.  You know what that means.  Pants would become mandatory.  And my children rejoiced.

I'm pretty predictable these days.  I'm either sitting in a recliner or lying in bed.  Sometimes I'm wearing pants, usually I'm not.  But regardless of where I am or what I am or am not wearing, there's one thing that sends them bolting from the room in absolute terror.  The loud sound of ripping Velcro.
I'm not the only one who fears my new tummy. 

Although I can unwrap my own stomach, I haven't yet learned the art of rewrapping it tight enough.  Enter Ron.  Again.

And that brings us back to pants.  I didn't own any appropriate ones that fit over my girdle.  That landed he and I in a Women's dressing room at Kohl's together where we could be overheard saying things like:  Lay flatter; This bench is too uncomfortable; Pull it harder; It's not lined up right; It's digging into my thigh and Quit complaining and let me finish! 

And to think my biggest worry was that Security might think my bulky shirt meant I was shoplifting. Silly me. 

Surprisingly, we were still allowed to make a purchase, which thanks to the big fat girdle included two sweat suits...so much for my pre-surgery visions of low rise skinny jeans and festive holiday crop top ensemble.

So how might I attempt to look normal while sporting an obvious abnormality?  I'll resume tanning, of course, because a fresh tan fixes everything. 

Flash to me lying face up in the tanning bed, completely unwrapped and exposed, with my knees bent at awkward angles because I'm still unable to lie flat and fighting panic as I realized I was trapped under a heavy tanning bed lid, coming dangerously close to screaming for the salon owner to break in and let me out. 

You see, sometimes our drama seeps out into the general public.

But recovery wise, we're on the home stretch.  Friday, a burning sensation began coursing through my ab muscles.  More of a post-ab-workout pain than the post-surgery pain I've grown accustomed to.  Then Saturday, things got strange.  I felt a spasm in my stomach that reminded me of something...the familiar feeling of an unborn baby kick from inside. 

Well, wouldn't that be horribly unfortunate timing.

As the spasms increased throughout the day, a word I learned way back in massage school crept out of it's long forgotten place in the attic of my dusty memory.  Synapse:  a junction between two nerve cells, consisting of a minute gap across which impulses pass by diffusion of a neurotransmitter. 

Holy crap.  I think I feel my nerve endings reconnecting.  And low and behold, I'm slowly regaining feeling in portions of my stomach that were previously numb.  (Thank you, Lord.)  A new level of healing has begun.

My mandatory girdle phase ends next Wednesday.  That means Ron has one more week to play his sick little, 'How tight can I wrap her" game that leaves him clapping while I lay flailing on the bed like a helpless mermaid.

As for my appointment today, nine outer stitches were removed.  One long stitch that runs under the surface of the entire length of a precisely thin incision spanning roughly 18-20 inches between hip bones along my bikini line will eventually dissolve, if it hasn't already.  Just in case, I'm still forbidden to take a bath.

I guess my plan of Ron and I sitting in the fitness center hot tub together, with me wearing a string bikini, sipping wine disguised in a water bottle while I leisurely shave my legs will have to wait one more week. 

Just kidding.

I'm not taking Ron.