Well, I do have a life now outside of writing fanfics, but I wil try to finish this by the end of the month. :)
Enjoy :)
January 26, 11 am
Well, I am progressing. I finally got out of the bed. I made it all the way to the bathroom, where I wetted a towel with cold water, then returned to the not-so-honeymooning bed and wrapped the towel around Michael's arm.
Yes.
It happened.
After almost 5 years, it happened. After all the marathons Tina and I had of that awful show (whose awfulness can only compare to that of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant), and all the pride I took in Michael's and my fitness.
(People don't really know this, but wearing long, intricate gowns actually demands some level of being in shape. I mean, some of Sebastiano's dresses have IRON in. And god knows what else, because trust me, there HAS to be something to push something up in my chest department. And then all the hairstyles Paolo creates, well, we go through like one can of hairspray per shooting. And make up! I surely don't look good after being up till 2 in the morning, then woken up at 6 and being in the studio by 8! I am aware that good blood flow makes your skin nicer, but – well, whatever, this has nothing to do with this. And the heels? Try to look graceful in the huge gown AND deliver the lines effortlessly and funnily while on high heels! Of course, Michael always says that being in shape is not only associated with evening gowns – and sex -, but also with better immune system and being sick less, but he also thinks Hiddleswift was a marketing move, so obviously his opinion outside of computers, changing lightbulbs, banana pancakes, Star Wars, Buffy, most efficient ways to kill flies (and he should leave this to Lars, as Lars is a trained killer), picking bikinis I look best in, sex, and, ok, sex again, doesn't really matter (he wanted to paint our bedroom RED! RED! So that I would always think of Taylor Swift and Harry Styles or Jake Gyllenhaal! Yeah, right! And not to mention perfumes! He has actually stated that Chanel Number 5 smells nice. Yes. Grandmere's perfume. Dr. Coletti – my new shrink – said that this is Michael's way of subtlety telling me he has made peace with all the crap Grandmere put us through before Michael made millions. Clearly this guy hasn't been my shrink in the years of my wild emotional instability. Then he would know Michael does not have any problems with saying things out loud clearly. I AM THE ONE! But of course I can't fire him. He is, after all, Dad's brother in law. Which is probably the best proof ever that you really should never employ your relatives. You can't fire them. And then the hell breaks loose. Because there is no supervision. Sort of like what happened with Boris when he dropped that globe on his head in our Freshman Year. But whatever, this has nothing to do with IT. I just wanted to point out that I am FIT. I have never been in better shape.))
(And Michael, too, obviously is fit. You don't just get those muscles sitting around creating emojis. Not to mention, his second favorite past time activity is jogging around Genovia. He says this way he learns about the history and culture of his new home. And I know that given the size of Genovia, this is not the best example, but it is sort of hard concentrate when your fingers are still totally frozen from nursing the love of my life back to a wedding-proper state.)
I truly never, ever thought we would experience any sex-related emergency. Of course there is that thing with my not taking pills (can you blame me? It seems like every other week Daily Mail has a tearjerker about a girl MY AGE that started taking birth control pills and dropped dead like three months later. Obviously I cannot risk pushing up daisies before I have pushed at least two kids out of my womb. And if I leave blood clots out of my worries for a second (but I shouldn't. I am in the risk group. Not in the most riskiest group, but I am in more danger of developing life-threatening conditions as a result of birth control pills than, say, most women.), well, I read on Twitter that a longtime use of hormonal contraceptives can with some women lead to problems with conception. Which, have I mentioned, I cannot afford, as the future of the throne relies on my reproductive hormones being in a complete balance till there are two kids smiling from the Christmas photographs of the Genovian Royal Family. Yes. No 22-year-old should be this concerned with the state of her womb. Not to mention the fertility exercises I do three times per day), but we are extra EXTRA careful when it comes to protection (remember Friends? If it happened there, it can happen ANYWHERE. And it happened to my mother. Apparently three times.), so we never had to go to the ER for the morning-after pill. And, as I mentioned, we are so fit that up until this morning, we haven't really been in danger of needing medical attention because of, well, sex.
And we weren't even doing anything special or acrobatic (NOT LIKE I DARE, NOW WHEN WE ARE SHOOTING MY MAN CAN! I cannot walk around the set AND IN FRONT OF CAMERAS with a splint on my leg!). Just, you know, the normal me on top like a thousand times before (no, this is not a feminist statement! Actually, I came to a conclusion that being feminist is not all that. Like, it is totally sexist if you choose members of the Goal Squad solely based on gender, or only employ women because you support feminism! Hello? You choose somebody based on gender, something they have no control over whatsoever (sort of like being born into a royal family), not because of their competences. Please, how is this not discrimination? I don't believe just in the equality of women – I believe in equality of EVERYONE.), and then Michael lifted himself up and intended to lean on his left arm while keeping the right one tightly wrapped around my waist, when – well, I don't know. Apparently his muscle snapped.
And next thing I ran to the bathroom to get him something cold to wrap around his arm.
I am sure Kate wasn't dealing with a sex injury two days before her wedding.
I grabbed my phone and googled his symptoms. Of course it took me like TEN MINUTES to type in the search box the proper symptoms. Like that time when our apartment was being repainted and I was staying in the palace (Michael was in New York on one of his work trips) and I came home after midnight when we were done shooting, and Lulu (my cat) waited on me in the room, hungry (well, not HUNGRY. I don't starve my cat. She just likes to, well, eat. Don't worry, she is not as, well, fat as Louie was. Mainly because she is free to run around all the gardens. Which of course results in another problem; that is, she is free to eat all the mice she wants, and yet she gets fed three times per day and has access to milk (it is good for bones). So, as a consequence, she doesn't just put a little weight on in the autumn, but is enautumned basically the whole year. But the vet insists her weight is still within normal range.), so we walked to the kitchen and THERE WAS A GREY CAT. Just like that, on the counter Pierre uses most. I almost got a heart attack. I love cats, and have a cat shelter to prove this, but walking in on stray cats in the kitchen … not a good idea if the following day there is this super important dinner with the president of the United States. So I just called René and we rubbed the kitchen and … nobody got sick or anything. I don't know where the cat went. But Lulu did try to bite my ankles for the three following weeks, so I suppose the two were friends.
"Relax, Mia," Michael said when I was all panicky when I couldn't find anything on Google (and if you can't find the answer in Google, well, then not even Cryonics will solve your problem, because Google is like the past, the present and the future). "It is nothing, really. It is probably just…"
I didn't hear his diagnosis, as then Google told me that the pain in the arm can be a sign of a stroke, so of course Michael had to start laughing.
You see why I do not want to be known as a passionate feminist? As a feminist I should focus on his laughing and how it insults me. But the real problem was his arm. So this is why it is better to focus on people, rather than gender. I cannot have a sex injury ruin my wedding.
"Wait here," I told him. "I'll go ask René what to do."
And you know what Michael did next? He wrapped both of his arms around me to stop me from going, and pulled me on the bed. Where I landed on his injured arm. And surely exacerbated the injury. LIKE JUST TWO DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING.
So it was absolutely clear what I needed to do.
"That's it!" I screamed. "No more sex before the wedding!"
That made Michael stop laughing. I wish he took me as seriously.
"You're joking, right?" he said. "We are back to a no sex rule?"
Apparently my pulling my pants on and desperately seeking my bra (it was in the bathroom) wasn't a big enough of a clue for him.
"I am not having a sex injury destroying my wedding," I told him, and I was more serious than –
1. when I spoke in the Genovian parliament and told them of parking clocks;
2. lobbied for euthanasia of pets to be free of charge for the owners;
3. supported feminine hygiene products to be free of charge;
4. got grading PE in schools forbidden, as being successful there has so much to do with genetics that it is just not fair to grade it. And it does nothing to make a child love exercise. If anything, children start hating PE and being active because there are rules they have to follow. Instead I told schools to have an hour of PE every day. Teachers introduce sports, but every child gets to decide which one they will take on every hour. Jogging is fine. Table tennis is fine. As are badminton, dodgeball, grass hockey. And after the Olympics, everyone started loving Rugby 7. We have a school league now, it is a big thing. I awarded the medals. Teachers tell me kids love the new PE format.
"I am not!" I repeated.
"Okay, Mia, this is my wedding, too. And I will probably be the one paying for it, so don't you think I should have a say in this no sex thing?" Michael sounded kind of panicky.
I gasped.
"So you would rather have sex now than full use of your body at your wedding?" I yelled. Then I remembered reading on Twitter that saying something in a calm manner has better effects than screaming it. So I went, calmly, "You are going to pay for the wedding, Michael, and I will make sure the wedding happens outside of the hospital or rehab center, okay? And then we will have our wedding night."
He considered my words for a moment, then sighed really loud and threw himself back on the pillows. I took it as a yes.
To Be Continued.
broughttoyouby:::winter.