“But I’ve been drinking cranberry juice.”

Seven months ago, my doctor’s office called about a blood test. Focused on my platelet count and thyroid numbers, I didn’t really pay attention to her other concerns.

“The test shows you have a urinary tract infection,” she said.

“But I’ve been drinking cranberry juice for years,” I said.

“Cosmopolitans don’t count, Catherine.”

“Besides, I don’t exhibit any of the symptoms.”

I thought back, years earlier, to when my friends always seemed to complain about cramps and painful urination after Lollapalooza and a certain band of traveling roadies blew through town. That couldn’t happen to me. At forty, I don’t attend concerts outdoors or sleep with strangers. So I hung up and quickly forgot about anything except how a healthy diet and superior attitude could cure just about anything.

When will I ever learn?

Toward the middle of May, I was doing yoga and felt an uncomfortable tugging or strain in my lower belly. I came to the conclusion, with absolutely no medical degree and zero training, that the pain was my old friend, Double Hernia, coming back to play. Thanks to a tummy tuck three years ago, the area around my belly button is completely numb, so I figured the pain traveled south and I tried to ignore it. Aren’t I amazing for someone who barely passed tenth-grade biology?

Truthfully, the last thing I wanted was another hernia repair, which would leave an ugly scar where a perfect and surgically placed belly button resides. But after the tugging wouldn’t go away, I Googled “Double Hernia” and read about my imminent death. Seems there are a variety of ways to die from ignoring such a strain in the name of vanity. So I made an appointment with my doctor and prepared for her mini-lecture about intestines and why they should remain inside the body.

My doctor looked concerned all right. But not about what I suspected.

“Did you get a call from us back in October about testing positive for a UTI?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but I told them I felt fine.”

“You still should have started treatment.”

“Why? I thought only sluts or newlyweds got UTIs.”

She stared at me for a full three-second count. I gulped and remembered my Nana’s constant advice, “Count to ten before you say something, Catherine. And then don’t say it.”

“Do you have frequent urination?” Doc asked.

“I thought it was the Double-Scotch before bedtime…”

“And you have pain in your lower abdomen.”

“I thought it was my Double Hernia.”

“Your double hernia was repaired years ago and besides, that was way up here.” She patted above my belly button. “Get up on the table and I’ll take a look.”

It wasn’t my Double Hernia.

“In October, you tested positive with over a hundred thousand colonies of bacteria present.”

“A hundred thousand colonies?” I tried not to shout. “That sounds like a party.”

“Give me a urine sample and I bet it’s gotten worse. We’ll have to start treating it immediately.”

Treating it? With antibiotics?

“The weekend is coming up,” I said. “Can I take these meds with wine?”

Count to ten, Catherine, and then don’t say it.

I gave her the urine sample and tested positive. Again. Yes, the disease all my loose friends got back in college is yet another malady I can add to my resume.

Oh, well. I’ve discovered that, along with certain antibiotics, humble pie also goes great with wine.