I'm not wearing any pants.

That would be American pants. I'm actually still wearing English pants. (and if you don't know what the hell I'm going on about- don't worry about it. Also- you should Google: "What does 'fanny' mean in England?").

I'm not wearing pants. And I've been suffering for the last two days with a pretty major flareup. How major? Well, I've tried to write about it twice and twice I deleted it. On Saturday, I kept turning my alarms off and I finally decided to get up... I looked at my clock and it read 6:18 AM. (little more than an hour later than usual). I was laying on my stomach, so getting up should have been as simple as turning to my side and pushing my legs over the edge of the bed, and having gravity force the rest of me to sit up. Except I couldn't turn to my side. I could barely move.

Pain decided to sit on me and pin me to the bed much like The Rock would have pinned me to the mat after I told him I could not smell what he'd been cooking. It would have been a pretty one-sided match anyway, be glad you didn't buy tickets to that gun show. I couldn't roll to my side to sit up. I couldn't move much at all. I ended up grabbing my headboard (which is made of wood and has spindles in it like a staircase has) with both hands and I was able to pull myself up in the bed, then I wedged pillows under my chest to give me a little leverage to swing my legs over. When I picked up my phone to check the time, it had been two minutes. It took me two goddamn minutes to get upright in bed.

By the time I got downstairs (where my caffeine and medicine happen to be), it was 6:28 AM. Yeah, ten minutes. It took me ten minutes to get from my bed to the bottom of the stairs. I spent Saturday dragging around my house and wishing I could just lay flat on the bed. But for some reason, the dogs haven't figured out doorknobs or how to let themselves out. Plus there are hawks in the neighborhood and damned if I don't want my dogs to be part of the food chain.

Sunday was pretty terrible too. While I didn't have to struggle so hard to get out of bed, I did end up falling asleep while sitting upright on the love seat. I was watching a movie, because sitting upright in this chair was exhausting. And I fell asleep. I stirred enough to change the channel when the movie ended (It was "Office Space") and fell right back to sleep. The good news is that while I had a weird dream mixed with the dialogue from an Edward Norton movie (I had changed the channel to "Keeping the Faith"), I had a dream about my parents. They were in one of those HUGE RVs- they actually used to have one, bigger than most people's first apartments. And they had takeout food in this dream and it smelled like cinnamon. They told me everything was all right and they were doing good.

And then I woke up. And while I was basking in the warmth of that dream, reality ripped me back when I tried to sit up. That's when I flailed like a turtle on its back for a moment. Luckily, I was able to get upright, because the dogs had to go out.

And I felt awful for the whole day. Just worn out and everything I did hurt. My body was having that all-over burning pain and I wanted to collapse every time I had to do anything. And around 730 PM, I took my pants off. My yoga pants were in the dryer, so I just put on a big T-shirt and left my jeans off. And about thirty minutes later, I started to feel better. I stopped feeling like I was in screaming agony and am now at the low-grade aching. I'm not running any marathons like this, but at least I'm sitting upright and typing.

All because I took off my pants. My yoga pants are now dry, but I'm still not wearing any pants. Those dudes who wear kilts have got the right idea. Fuck pants, I say.