“Man, I feel like a woman”

Let’s go girls! – Shania Twain

Ladies, I feel you. I get it. Hell I had already got it. Now please stop. Please please stop. Specifically I want you to stop using your blood magic to transform the region between my belly button and groin into a woman.

I thought I’d already appeased the gods of feminine pain. I’ve had an epidural, and I’ve given birth through cesarean section. I didn’t experience the miracle of birthing a living being per se, but instead experienced the nightmare of birthing a dying organ. But I gave birth non the less. Same same. So ladies, I feel you. I get it. The patriarchy, 77 cents on the dollar, mansplaining, all that jazz. Got it. I even enjoy the Shania Twain song in the title of this post, but can my tum tum stop feeling like a woman now? Hell I should be on the cover of Vanity Fair at this point. Bruce only did the fun shit to become Caitlyn. Hair, boobs, makeup, dresses… all the dope lady stuff. I’m doing the freaking dirty work over here to become a woman, but am I brave? Am I an inspiration? Am I going to receive the Arthur Ashe Courage Award? Hell no. Nor should I. But… kinda… shouldn’t I?

I’m putting in work son! I’m on my grind. Not only have I given birth, now I’m having menstrual cramps. Is Caitlyn cramping… bet not. Just moments ago I experienced what I assume to be the equivalent of 5 years of menstrual cramps in one horrific 4 minute period. Do you know what kind of cramping is possible from an abdomen muscle which has been sawed open, had the intestines behind it reimagined into a Pablo Picasso painting, and then closed up? That ab has some serious shit to get off it’s chest.

And guess what’s one thing that works your ab muscles that you probably don’t think about much? Should be an easy guess since this is a Cooking with Crohn’s blog post. Yup, you got it. Pooping. I can’t possibly describe all the ways IBD makes pooping un-fun. I could never think of them all. I have to settle for the universe reminding me of them at arbitrary times. Today the universe reminded me that pooping uses ab muscles, and that that can be an issue if your ab is waiting to exact revenge on you for the sawing, tearing, and sewing you’ve put it through.

How can I convey the experience to you? Imagine pooping when suddenly your lower right ab folds in on itself, and then rotates along your stomach’s z-axis to go underneath the lower left ab. I literally shouted in pain, and lifted up my shirt to check if there was a huge crater in my stomach where that ab once resided. It appeared to still be there, but was kind of pulsating. Mind you, the pain did not conclude upon the initial ‘folding’ of the ab, it continued to reintroduce itself in waves for the next 45 seconds. My shouts became markedly more pathetic throughout this period (pun intended).

One thing I like about my bathroom in instances of searing poop pain such as this (of which there have been countless) is that the wall to my left is nearby and made of marble tile. So while I whimper in pain I can lean to my left and press my face against the cool tile. A truly strong and masculine image of myself is surely in your minds eye at this point. Pathetic as the whole posture is, the tile soothes my flush face.

The ordeal goes on to include my usual cries of “kill me,” “Jesus Christ,” and “how is this possible?”. Those are my go to bathroom cries when all alone. But eventually things pass and I’m left sweaty, panting, and far less optimistic about life.

Okay, I’m going to go listen to Shania’s masterpiece “You’re still the one” as I gaze at a framed picture of my colon the way Wolverine looks at his picture of Jean.

-James

PS: You’re Still the One link. It’s less of a music video as much as it is a cologne commercial with an original soundtrack.