"Beetle, I think I pulled my groin muscle."
Famous last words.
Or first words...I guess that would fit our situation best.
Let me preface this story with the disclaimer that Mr. Lucas did approve the following information to be leaked to all corners of the globe through the power of the Interwebs. This will neither be my last post nor will you see any formal apology for what I am about to write.
But really, it's not that bad. I'm just gonna talk about Corey's crotch a little bit.
Now without further ado...
Corey and I spent the wee hours of Saturday morning in the emergency room. He. Was. Injured. We're not sure how it happened, or when it happened, but it happened. Something was horribly wrong.
"Corey, why do you keep grabbing yourself like that??"
"What?? I have to help pick my leg up...it hurts!!"
"But we. are. in. Public!"
This was Friday night. We decided to meet up with friends for drinks and apps despite Corey's fragile condition and the rain.
I feel like at his age a lot of aches and pains can be now be blamed on the weather.
Anyway, we see our friends, we laugh, we eat, I eat off of everyone's plates, we laugh some more. I noticed Corey propping his foot up on the bottom rung of those high bar chairs.
"It's the only thing that makes it feel better."
Next thing I know it's 3:30am and I'm woken up by a tap, tap, tap.
"Hey Beetle, I think I need to go to the ER."
"This thing hurts!"
"Ok, did you try laying a different way?"
So he tosses and turns. I doze off.
"It feels a little better when I sit up like this."
"Ok, so we'll prop you up in the chair in the living room and...."
"No. I need to go to the ER."
(Lord give me compassion because you know how much of a bear I am without my beauty sleep)
"Ok, Cor. Let's go."
Now, the moral of this story....well, there really is none. We drove to the hospital, he got shot up with some extra strength ibuprofen in the keester, and we drove back home.
But what I think us ladies, and some of our gentlemen, can derive is some amusement in the differences between our sexes.
It's the I-feel-like-my-uterus-is-going-to-explode-better-fold-this-laundry VS. I-have-tummy-grumblies-please-hold-me.
Or just-sliced-tip-of-finger-off-chopping-onions-must-feed-family VS. I'm-sorry-this-bunion-on-my-foot-prevents-me-from-mowing-the-lawn-ever.
And my favorite I-may-feel-like-swine-flu-is-stabbing-me-in-the-chest-but-I-need-to-see-who-wins-America's-Next-Top-Model VS. I'll-be-late-to-work-because-I'm-going-to-have-this-ingrown-hair-looked-at-by-the-doctor-because-I'm-sure-it's-not-just-a-pimple.
(of course this is entirely hypothetical)
You're nodding your head, aren't you.