Tonight I’m hanging with my best friend, another bout of unbearable insomnia, only this time his presence is accompanied by the unrelenting lower back pain caused by a silly shower move.
I’d love to say I was doing something impressive like mastering the ability to clean my hair while doing a solid handstand in a half-top showcasing the American flag. And while shampoo was involved in the incident, it was not while doing something worthy of YouTube or something I could call my mother and tell her I’d landed a spot in The Guinness Book of World Records.
Reaching. Yeah. That’s it. That’s all I was doing. Reaching for the shampoo bottle and thwap!
Crippling, screaming, paralyzing back pain. As if someone took it upon themselves to speed up my personal aging process by jabbing a machete into the base of my spine. OH GOD THE SHOOTING PAIN!
Since that fateful morning, I’ve gone through waves of extreme pain that leave me completely useless. I’m lucky enough to have a great friend whose dad is a chiropractor. I’m sure when I go into the office to have him work his spinal wizardry I’ll be whipped back into shape in no time.
Until then, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.
Drugs? Not helping. Rest? Too uncomfortable. Just Dance-ing? Talk about flirting directly with disaster because she has a nice rack. Sleeping? Pffft. I WISH!!
Naturally, WebMD and my self-taught knowledge of diagnostic medicine have led me to a few conclusions. It’s safe to fire all of your medical professionals now because I’ve discovered the answer to our personal healthcare crisis. You’re welcome. What I’m looking forward to most is offering all of my internet-found suggestions for what is going on inside my body to a man who’s known me since I could barely ride a bicycle and puked on his living room during a sleepover on his sofa once after an overdose on chocolate chip cookies with his daughter. Surely, nothing could go wrong there.
What I wish for the most is someone to be having sympathy pains while I go through this treachery. Everyone wants someone to understand why the hell they are reluctant to take a piss. Heaven forbid I twist my body on the pot just so and the next thing you know, I’m writhing in pain on the bathroom floor, pants around my ankles, and tinkle drops on my beefy, inner thigh.
(Laughter from every member of my family as they watch me in duress.)
“I was just trying to wipe!! GODDAMMIT! Quit snickering and help me clean up my thigh, will you?
From what I can tell, I think I need to write under the influence of mid-level painkillers more often.