I am taking Cialis.
Yes, you read that correctly. I am a 29 year-old female in the suburbs with Bachelor episodes on my DVR and organic milk in my fridge, swallowing erectile dysfunction meds in 5 mg tablets.
Allow me to explain while you choke on your diet cola.
It is for my appendages.
Okay, bad start. Not that appendage.
The story originates during my junior year in college while studying abroad Down Under. I decided to hike Franz Josef’s glacier during a blizzard - in jeans. I froze my cheeks off. All four of them. And when I returned to Sydney a nice pudgy pink welt flew back with me, protruding from my middle finger.
My housemates quickly organized a pool that leaked out to the majority of University of New South Wales students. Bets were on about whether I had lecherous fungi living off my knuckle or if the rare Themognatha Yerrelli Beetle had taken a bite out of me. The clear favorite was that the alien bump was in fact a venomous Funnelweb spider sac and that one imminent night while I lay sound asleep, a stampede of scampering baby specimens would rupture through my skin. And kill me on the spot.
Horrified of being an arachnid-hatching host, I poked and prodded at the protrusion with violent force, but it only grew more swollen and painful by the day. By the time I returned back to The States, I had resolutely accepted the fact that a promising career in hand modeling would not be in my future. Still, I was a pro at concealing my blemish by sitting with my hand tucked under me or making a fist on the commuter train. It became a part of my anatomy and I affectionately referred to it as my “nodule” among friends.
After college, when I irrationally traded in California palm trees for Chicago sleet, my bump decided that it was time to start a family and procreate. This conveniently coincided with the only six-month period in my life when I depended solely on a slimy serpent for health coverage- Cobra. I was young and naïve and thought it prudent to visit every dermatologist, rheumatologist, and hand surgeon in the county before my Hyatt Blue Cross Blue Shield insurance kicked in. Of course, 22 year-olds are riddled with expensive life mistakes as much as sixteen year-olds are clogged with colossal forehead pimples. I’m chalking it up to a rite of passage.
The doctors were puzzled. They ran tests, biopsied flesh, drew blood, analyzed pee in Petri dishes, and informed me that I was a medical outlier. Young and healthy, but with hands like an arthritic great aunt. It was quite the accomplishment. One rheumatologist even took high-resolution photographs to show his doctor buddies over Thanksgiving in effort to generate a differential diagnosis over cranberry sauce and stuffing. That January, he included a photo of my fingers in a medical textbook he was publishing. My nodules had made it to Hollywood.
The resounding hypothesis was that I had a type of Raynaud's disease. Finally, a name by which to define my oddity. This pretty much meant my circulation was lousy and blood was not making it to my extremities, especially in colder temperatures. Yet, doctors were still puzzled why the vascular swellings had latched on to just two of my fingers. Typically Raynaud’s does not show preference to certain piggies, but rather infects all fingers, toes, and sometimes even the nose for abysmally unfortunate saps.
It was only a matter of time.
I remember having cold fingers since I was a little girl, but it wasn’t until I reached the age of holding hands with the opposite sex that I realized how frigid they actually were. Of course, I had always received a range of shocked expressions when I offered “peace” at church, shook hands at a party, or changed a diaper while babysitting. Growing up, my grandmother, Baba, affectionately called them, “Rucichke zaba” (literally “hands like a frog” in Czech) as she rubbed them warmly between her own. They were hands from the morgue, but I didn’t actually feel self-conscious until a boy in college labeled them cold and clammy. An excellent combination for the ocean, but not for boosting the confidence of a shy, pale, pubescent girl.
By the time I hit 24, I exhibited a classic case of Raynaud's – painful toe nodules that throbbed when I shoved them into socks and knuckles that could have been cast over the cauldron in Snow White. I did everything a good Raynaudee should do in the winter. I raided L.L. Bean catalogs and North Face websites with feverish desperation, hoarding Thermo fleece mittens as if they were cans of spam during Y2K. My hands were so restricted under the layers of wool, I could barely pick up my own purse let alone steer a car. I began buying shoes two sizes too big to accommodate my “sock sandwiches” and I clopped around the house in wool slippers fit for the arctic. I cranked up the heat and even broke down and bought a pair of Uggs. Still my nodules hung around like a family of stray alley cats.
And then I met the pharmacist. Convenient, you say? I agree, but I promise I am dating him for more than his drugs. For one, I appreciate his meddlesome curiosity. This is a guy who thinks outside the box. Way outside. He figured if Cialis can increase blood flow in sexually defunct men why wouldn’t it help Emily’s incompetent circulation and deformed paws. This is the kind of forward logic that put pineapple on pizza and the internet in our pockets. I was willing to give it a whirl, but not without a fair bit of scientific interrogation first.
“You’re absolutely sure I won’t be humping my desk chair by this afternoon?”
“I’m sure.”
“Or orgasming during dinner?”
“I’m sure.”
“And, I won’t....grow a penis?
That, I just got a look for.
And so, here they are. Little white Cialis pills on my nightstand and I’m hopeful they will offer some relief or at least save me from an overzealous glove-buying compulsion. But, I implore you. Please. If you spot me lounging naked in some bathtub with feet, gazing out a vast emerald lake while clutching hands with an old guy in the next tub – by all means, intervene.
Especially if it’s cold outside.
