Aching out the end of the year

As a year, any year, draws to a close, it causes people to review their triumphs and travails, ups and downs, and to plan for the year ahead. Goals and resolutions are made, which typically fall apart around 30 days into that new year. I'm no different than any of you and as I ponder the highlights of 2013, I'm aching it out.

Aching? Yes, aching. Why, pray tell? This past Friday night, after our big anniversary dinner at a Brazilian temple of meat, my right big toe began to burn a bit. I thought it might be due to the fact that it was the first time in six days that I was wearing a dress shoe. I paid it no mind although I thought it strange that night as I crawled into bed that the touch of the sheet on said toe hurt. I had no idea what was coming.

I awoke Saturday morning in wicked pain, with a swollen toe, sporting a raging purple ring around it, and radiating heat. It was no better, even worse, on Sunday when we had to march ourselves, or limp in my case, through the Orlando airport. I chose to march through the airport sans a shoe on my right foot. I actually had to argue with the TSA Fascist agent when we were routed through the Pre-Check lane that I WANTED to keep my shoe off. Just for that, they made me get my hands swabbed for bomb residue. Have I mentioned how awesome they are (not)? At this point, the Boy had used the hypochondriac's interweb crack, WebMD, to diagnose me, correctly it turns out, with gout. I shrugged that off as I was under the false impression that gout was reserved to morbidly obese elderly men.

Upon our return to the mildly frozen tundra of Connecticutistan, it was clear I would need to see a doctor and that was first order of business on Monday. Before the doctor arrived in the exam room, the nurse asked me to remove my sock so she could see my toe. As soon as I removed it, she took one look at it and declared, "Oh honey, you've got the gout!" The doctor was in shortly after that, took a look, and declared the same. Diagnosis: Gout. While I'm not elderly and just a little obese, I got the gout just the same.

According to the Boy, when you say you have gout, it sounds like you have an STD. Based on a few of the reactions I've gotten since declaring my status as one who has the gout, umm, he's right. I might as well be saying, 'Well, hi there, I have a raging case of the Clap. Good to meet you!' based on the way people draw in a deep breath and step back ever so slightly when you say you've got the gout. Good times.

So I'm not contagious. I just don't want anyone close enough to even graze my toe. This gout crap hurts something awful. Seriously. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, probably. But thanks ever so much to the wonder that is pharmacology, the pain ebbs and flows. I'm looking forward to it going away completely. Soon. Really soon.

Suffice to say, I will not be dancing in the New Year. For any of you who have seen me dance, you will see this gout attack as a blessing knowing that I won't be darkening the dance floor this year. I'll just be glad if I can sleep without the sheet acting as an agent of pain as 2014 makes its arrival. Happy New Year to me!