For those of you who have been dubious upon hearing the "exaggerated" tales of the misery of shingles...believe them!...even the ones about people jumping out of windows to escape the pain.  I pondered that, standing at our bedroom window.  There were problems, though.  If I chose that solution; (1) The window isn't very far off the ground. (2) The area below the bedroom window is covered with crushed rock and sports three sturdy rose bushes. Should I summon the strength and agility to clamber over the sill and hurl myself below, it seemed to me it would only, with certainty, add to my discomfort.

There is also an old wives tale that the shingles, which usually pursue a path halfway around your waist, will be fatal if they start marching on around and the twain shall meet. I thought about that, too, not sure whether I was "for" or "against."

For those of you who have been fortunate enough never to have been cornered by an informative victim of this ailment, let me attempt to enlighten you. First, there was a persistent irritation at my waistline and I kept looking for a foxtail in my waistband. After two or three days of that, I broke out in pink spots which trailed from my center around one side and up half my back to an area under my bra. I learned early that you DO NOT SCRATCH. Shingles are caused by a virus and result in an irritation (and how!) of the nerve endings. Each red spot, which soon becomes a blister, feels like a crazybone when touched. The pain resembles a broken rib accompanied by hot needles. And it doesn't take time out.

Clothing, you can readily recognize, becomes a problem.  First to go was anything that touched my waist. Leaving off the slip helped, too...it was fitted. Next to go was the bra. Now, at sixteen, I could have gone bra-less and no one would have known the difference.  I am still not overendowed, but now it's a matter of placement. I've understood one does not qualify for bra-less if a pencil placed under the bosom remains in place. At my age, a whole box of crayons would be safe. Everything has yielded to the pull of gravity. The bulge in women's clothing which is destined to accommodate and enhance the female form would now be unoccupied and the fitted area below would be overpopulated. This I solved by wearing a loose tent-like creation in "fits all sizes." However, while doing its floating thing it still occasionally touched my little pink devils who gleefully responded by prodding me with their pitchforks. This was the best comfort I could achieve, though, and still remain semi-presentable. "Fits all sizes" is also relatively translucent, so if anyone came I had to remain backed up to a wall. What does a man do, clothing-wise, if he has shingles...pretend he is an Arab chieftain for the duration?  Former sufferers have told me this can last for months.  The shingles were indisputably winning the war for three weeks, but by now co-existence has become possible. I'm hoping my Christmas letter won't have to begin with "Shingle Bells, Shingle Bells."

Blessings,  Darlys & George