Every woman loves to tell the story of delivering her child into this world.  Not the joy of seeing that little alien face for the first time, but of the life-sucking, soul-crushing, mother-f*cking PAIN of the delivery.  We wear it like a badge.  When you have an infant, you can’t hear the pizza guy tell you your order will be ready in 30 minutes without rolling your eyes and saying, “Please.  I was in labor for 18 hours without an epidural.  I could wait all day for that pizza and my stomach wouldn’t even growl.”  And a group of new mothers gathered together?  It’s like an episode of the Bachelor, but instead of a rose, you are fighting for the highest pain tolerance: “Episiotomy ripped!”  “30 hours labor and a C-section!” “At home water birth!” **

The reason we talk about the pain endlessly? Other than gnawing your own arm off because you are stuck between 2 boulders in the Grand Canyon à la 127 Minutes, it’s the worst pain imaginable.  And men will never experience it.  This is because a man’s pain tolerance is the equivalent of Kylie Jenner’s God-given face: it doesn’t exist.  (Exception: 127 Minutes guy.  In a wilderness emergency, I would probably sacrifice myself to a coyote in the first 4 minutes of realizing there was no wifi.  Then again, I rarely stray more than 30 yards from my bed, so I’m more likely to be ravaged by muscle atrophy than a coyote.)

A few weeks ago, I got my Almost Husband to go to an exercise class with me.  The next morning, as I headed out to have my bikini line lasered, A.H. was writhing around in bed, moaning about being paralyzed and rubbing his triceps.   Now, it is worth repeating that WE WENT TO THE SAME CLASS.  Of course my own arms were hurting.  But I was actively choosing to set my crotch on fire, so sympathy was not free-flowing.

The next day, his arms were hanging limp at his sides, and he was convinced he would never regain the use of either hand.  Rather than do a set of plank jumping jacks at his feet, I spared his pride.  I told him if he could get a doctor to diagnose him with an actual physical ailment, I would give him unlimited blow jobs for the rest of the year.

If you think you know how this ended, you would be correct – 5 days later he finally quit bitching about his broken arms, and I was spared a lifetime of TMJ.

**Winner.  Also, we are probably not friends.  

© Calling All Cool Moms 2017