I would so love if that had anything to do with a Katherine Hepburn movie.
I would so love if anything about me suggested Katherine Hepburn.
I wear pants. That’s it. That’s as close to Katherine Hepburn as I am ever going to bloody get.
This has nothing to do with the lovely and gracious Katherine Hepburn.
I am limber.
And I know right now you’re smirking and nodding in a knowing way and thinking, “That Himself. He’s a lucky man.”
And ok, yes. He is a damned lucky man. But that’s not the kind of limber I’m talking about.
This kind of limber is a useless sort of limber.
I mean seriously…explain to me the evolutionary advantage of joints randomly popping out of place? Where in the survival of the species is that helpful? “Quick, Moog, that’s a saber tooth tiger! But you know, they HATE to eat things with bones all sticky-outy! Quick! Nursemaid’s elbow!”
Yep. Right. That’s what led us to be the dominant species. Some damn freakishly limber cavewoman causing a predator to choke to death on a dislocated humerus.
Which led to the peak of evolutionary biology….me.
Yes, I AM the woman in all those skinless illustrations.
I believe the medical term for my spinal column is: useless piece of elastic.
A rubber band propeller airplane has a more structural integrity than I do.
Think about your rib cage. You know, the one sitting there all tough and cage-like and protecting stuff like, oh I dunno…your vitalist organs!
Pound on that chest for me. Do your best Tarzan. BANG THAT RACK!
I bet every single one of your ribs stayed in place. Yep. I’m sure they did. Sitting right there over your lungs and your heart and…and…what the hell else is there? Your transmission. Your timing belt. I bet they did.
Now take a deep breath. Really deep. Yawn like you’ve been watching PBS for three straight hours.
Any screaming? No? Doubling over? Nothing?
Yeah, I thought so. I so hate you right now.
My ribs dislocate. Out of my spinal column.
Did you even know they could do that?
I didn’t either! And I took a goddamned graduate level neuroanatomy course!
Wait…wait. That was bitter. Petty. Beneath me.
Let me focus…breathe…
My years of education and training and boatloads of experience all lead me to think that, in general, it shouldn’t hurt to breathe.
Because, also gleaned from my highly sophisticated training and education, I have noticed that people won’t DO THINGS if they HURT.
Which creates this little paradox when it hurts to breathe, because it makes me want to NOT.
And I’ve gotten used to a brain that benefits from the luxury of oxygen. I know, I’m a spoiled and privileged multi-celled vertebrate. So sue me.
Fortunately, Himself has learned how to re-insert my ribs, although when they’re being really stubborn he may have to repeat the process.
And the “process” of reinserting my rib is to pound the floor by reaching through my torso.
Yep. It is all kittens and glitter butterflies over in IPoMP land at the moment.
And I bet their damned ribs stay in place too.
I hate kittens and butterflies.