Shingle Bells

I have shingles, guys. SHINGLES.

Note: Every time I talk about shingles I picture Heather Armstrong from dooce saying, "SHINGLES!"

For those of you that don't know about shingles, here's a breakdown. When you get chicken pox as a cute little kiddo, and then recover from them, the virus that caused the pox lives in YOUR SPINAL CORD forever. If, for some reason, your immune system is compromised (in my case from endometriosis) the virus springs free and nestles somewhere in your body where it proceeds to ruin your life. You get a rash that itches like mad, and, worse than that, it HURTS. I initially thought, because of the apocalyptic pain, that I had broken my tailbone.

You may be thinking, "Tailbone?" Yes, dear readers. I have SHINGLES on my BUTT.

I went to the doctor yesterday, dropped trou, and she almost immediately was all, "Oooh shingles." And then gave me a 'scription and sent me on my way. But this is my life, so the story cannot have run out of ridiculousness there. I get two drugs for my sick ass. One is an antiviral pill, and the other is an anti-itch cream. I didn't even know there were prescription anti-itch creams, so I actually read the insert in the box. Turns out what I have in my hand is herpes ointment, basically Valtrex in cream form.

So, just to summarize, I am now a person who has to rub Valtrex on my ass five times a day. The irony is that when I first started having pain and noticed the rash, I actually said out loud, to my rear, "You better not have herpes. If that is herpes I will CUT YOU." And look at me now, shooting my booty the evil eye while coating it in herpicide. DAMN YOU, SHINGLES!