Everything always works out

Trumpets sounded early this morning at my abode.
Champagne corks were popped as the wife and kiddies danced wildly.
What precipitated such a celebratory start to the day? My pronouncement that salvation had been delivered, with the help of a two tiny pills, numerous glasses of water and a heaping bowl of bran cereal.
I've never, ever had THAT problem before. For all my complexities, I'm typically a regular guy in every sense of the word. Give me the sports section and let me go to work.
Well, for whatever reason, that all came to a screeching halt five days ago. The days that followed saw me gain a feet-dragging 12 pounds, suffer one continuous headache and sleep an average of four hours per night. All the while I had to listen to the resident doctor, my personal Dr. Sanjay Gupta, who took aim at my diet, my lifestyle and, just for because she can, my mother. With friends like her, who needs enemas?
Come Wednesday, I'd had enough. Something had to give and fast. At the drug store, I spent what seemed like a lifetime explaining my, uh, challenge to the pharmacist, not once referring to it by its proper medical term. Smart woman. She grasped what I was trying not to say and directed me to an off-the-shelf product. "Trusted for 45 years" read the label. Someone's had this problem for 45 years? I shuddered.
With the advice that I take just two pills before bed lest I lose a lung along with everything else, I headed home.
Now I can't recall a happier drive to work.