Too Much Information

"TMI" or, for those of us not in our mid-20s or younger, "Too Much Information."  That's what I'm about to give you.

Saturday morning, I ran the Country Music Half-Marathon.  There's nothing unusual about that, as its a race I run almost every year.  What was unusual, however, is that I had a brutal, brutal run (1:52 or so), mostly because I just haven't had time to get many long runs in on weekends.  In addition, I haven't been putting in as much mileage as I normally do.  That's what having a second child will do to you, I suppose.  I planned on running 1:50, so I wasn't disappointed in the time I ran, just with how tough the run was and how terrible I felt the last 3 miles.

Now, here where things get interesting.

Between mile 10 and 11, I noticed my nipples were chafing, even though I had put some "Body Glide" on them prior to the race.  I was wearing a relatively new, Golite running shirt and, for some reason (the fabric, the temperature, etc.), it chafed my nipples.  I wasn't hurting enough to take my shirt off during the race - that would have hurt the runners around me - or to avail myself of the vaseline that was being handed out by medical personnel along the route.  I didn't think it was the bad.

I was wrong, as I quickly realized when the race was over.  Walking back to my truck, my nipples hurt with every step - literally - as the fabric of my shirt touched them.  Taking a shower after I got home was pure torture.

Last night, when I climbed into bed beside Jude about 11 p.m., I couldn't get comfortable.  My nipples were still hurting.  Again, just the slightest touch of the fabric of my t-shirt sent ripples was painful.  Half jokingly, I said to Jude, "I might need some of that stuff you rub on your nipples."  Without missing a beat as she pumped breast milk (something she hates to do, by the way) and without looking at me, she reached over to her bedside table, picked up a tube of something and handed it to me.  Calling her bluff, I unscrewd the top, squeezed a little bit of "goo" out of the tube and rubbed it on my left, then right, nipple.  Then, I moaned, which caused her to simultaneously laugh and shake her head sadly.

When I asked her what would happen next, she suggested my breast milk would come in sometime in the next three days.  I laughed.

Then I stopped laughing.  I stopped laughing because my nipples began to burn like someone was holding a lit match to them.  That's when Jude started laughing harder. 

I rushed into the bathroom, unsure of what to do.  I wet some Kleenex and tried to rub teh "goo" off my nipples.  This, of course, made them hurt worse.  Ditto for when I tried to dry my nipples with a paper towel.  Jude kept laughing.  Finally, I staggered in the hall to Joey's changing table, found a tube of straight up vaseline, and slathered it on my nipples. 

When I recounted this story tonight to our friend, Cyndi Baines, she laughed her ass off.  Then she told me I had gotten just a tiny taste of what it's like to be a woman.  And she was right.

If that's what it's like to be a woman, I thought, then a tiny taste is all I want.