For weeks I've been grousing about how badly my butt hurts. I've blamed it on excessive exercise and on sitting too long at a fancy dinner and a conference. Even while I was complaining, those didn't feel right. There had to be something more that was causing my tush to be a source of pain.
This evening I figured it out. It's the PlasmaCar. My sister sent three of these for Christmas this past December--one for each kid. We dutifully put them together and read the insert. What got our attention was the part that said, "Can hold up to 220 pounds." Cool, Phill and I thought, we can ride them, too. And, we have.
Lately, I've been riding one with my son in front of me. He can't quite get the arm movement down for riding; I help purely for his enjoyment. We ride nearly every day and have for the past three weeks. When I ride with him, I am in a constant butterfly position with my legs, which means that my tail bone is directly in contact with hard plastic.
We can clearly blame my sister for the painful butt. I have, of course, forgiven her for gifting us with such fun toys. These PlasmaCars are so fun that I make noises, such as Wheee! WoooooHooooo!, as we travel the incline of our driveway. These are noises that adults don't usually make unless they've had so much of a potent potable that the men in the pub are constantly quizzing them on where their bed and breakfast is. The only reason that the drunken people remember which room is theirs is because the inn keepers have identified the rooms as signs of the zodiac and that was decidedly funny when they checked in because neither of them had that sign which bothered the inn keepers because we might have less fun in their little city due to planets being misaligned. Even drunk, that is not something we would have forgotten. But, those people weren't Phill and I. You mustn't think so.
At least I know the source of my pain. I'm still going to ride them.