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Yesterday I tweaked my back, though perhaps wrenched it would be better or taunted it and made it cry ... any verbal embroidery to capture the fact that pain has locked its teeth down low and to the left like a pit bull.
Pat and I biked like champions yesterday morning, but that didn't do it, I'm sure. I'm thinking it was when I rolled around on the floor in various contortions trying to screw the mail slot back into the wall, from when I had removed it to repair the flap. And then last night we visited The Andersons and watched the movie Monterey Pop on their Andorra-sized TV with its new surround-sound component.
I've done this before. I find myself in a cramped and uncomfortable seat, and rather than saying so for fear of appearing self-important and not able to take "six of the best" with a stiff upper lip when it comes to the musical chairs of a social situation, there I sit somewhat confined, misaligned and out of whack.
So last night in bed I could not find that sweet spot, usually in fetal position, when sharp pain becomes dull ache. I got out of bed and alternated hot pack and ice cubes until the discomfort was manageable and slept a little.
But no matter how lovely a church St. Ignatius is, every day is a bad chair day when you're seated on the speakers platform in seeming astonishment at exhortations you've heard quite a few times before, starting at your own grade school graduation.
And now I hear some ice cubes calling my name.
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