I collapsed on the bed. Hoisted my legs in the air. MTM sauntered from the bathroom, the air still steamy from the shower. He stepped between my gams and did what he had to do.
“Ow, MTM!! That cream is supposed to help, not set my skin on FREAKING FIRE!!!!!”
“You just need to relax.”
“You’re—OWOWOWOWOWOWOW!!! Don’t put tape on that spot.”
“Get away get away get away!” (I think I kicked him in the head.)
“Will you just be still, Andra? I told you not to wear regular tights on a fifteen mile walk. You need the athletic kind to keep from getting this rash between your legs. I hope you’ll listen to me now and get the right ones before you start this crazy Natchez Trace walk in March.”
I gritted my teeth and let him finish. My makeshift bandage looked like a Depend diaper from behind.
But, I’ve walked every day this week, with two long hauls. My hips are no longer screaming, and my feet are building callouses in all the right places. For the next couple of days, I guess MTM won’t mind that I have to sit in chairs like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.
I’m sure that’ll rub him the right way.