What does a middle-aged Quaker English professor have in common with a florid, over-imbibing, fox-hunting, knee-slapping, upstairs maid-dallying specimen of Eighteenth century gentry?
No, besides the loud voice. And the buff cheer.
We both have gout.
Before I go any further, I want to apologize to former boyfriend Tom, who I know reads this blog regularly. Tom, you had a couple of bouts of gout when we were dating, and now I realize that I was NOWHERE NEAR sympathetic enough.
Gout hurts — hurts enough to cause nausea.
And stop laughing! I’m finding that the second most painful aspect of gout is that people who don’t have it don’t take it very seriously.
I said, stop laughing!
And how did I get gout? Well, big sis Linda informs me that Grandpa Curran had it, and it runs in families. Second, I spent at least six months eating an extremely clean, virtually fat- and caffeine-free diet, and then starting in mid-August, I went a little bit crazy. Okay, a lot crazy. Chocolate. Homemade pesto. Homemade cheese. Coffee. Booze. Pizza. And now I’m paying for it.
Two days of pain takes it out of a girl. The dogs got a walk this morning, but not this evening. They are giving me THE LOOK — heads bent, sad eyes looking up, poor doggies suffering at the hand of a whimsically evil owner. I’m pretty sure their next strategy will be this:
This man is similar to me in more ways than one. In addition to the unwalked dog attack, note the cane carried for gout relief and the inordinately large, chocolate and pesto padded butt.