An old friend came to visit today.
I'm in town, engaged in a bit of light retail therapy, and I notice my back twinging for the third time in as many minutes. Gentle warning spasms, quiet words. My back is talking to me.
Woo! Notice that? Didja notice?
Yep, I noticed thanks. I'll be careful.
Yeah, you do that, muffin-top.
I'm not fond of any of my internal voices, especially when they come from bodily parts. This one is from Brooklyn, and sounds like he's been gargling with gravel. It's as if Ernest Borgnine's Cabbie from Escape From New York is haranguing me from behind.
A few minutes later I get another twinge, quite a nasty one. Lower back, straight across, and into my hips. My legs feel weak, and I somehow flop into a conveniently-placed seat in the middle of the mall.
Heh, lucky that chair was there, fat boy.
What? Oh take a hike, pal. I'm just tired.
Tired? Yeah, pizza has a way of making you tired.
Oh gimme a break, I'm just gonna rest for a moment.
Whatever you say, chief. You take your time.
There's only one more shop to visit. A sports shop, I need a pair of running shoes.
Running shoes? Heh, that's almost funny.
I realise with dismay that what I want is upstairs. There's a lot of stairs. And stairs are not fun with a bad back. And dammit, there's no customer lift.
You sure you wanna do this? That's one doozy of a staircase.
It's a flight of stairs. Piece of cake. I'm forty and fit.
I cycle, I lift weights.
No, you did. Not these past three months.
Since I started blogging? Is that when I stopped?
You better believe it. Too busy. You dropped the ball.
I ignore the warnings and press on, plodding resolutely up the stairs, one at a time. Ten, fifteen, no problem. Almost there.
Then it hits me again. Lower back again, nerves pinching, lateral agony, and vertical weakness. My legs crumple, all my strength rendered useless. I twist and inelegantly find a stair with my arse.
Safe. And nobody noticed.
I knew I shoulda done it as you were coming down.
I thought yer bowels were gonna go there.
Yeah, so did I.
See, I told you. You've let yourself go, boy.
It's been worth it. I've achieved so much. Gained so much.
Yeah, about twenty pounds last time I looked.
Twenty pounds? I can lose that in a coupla months.
You could if the NFL season wasn't starting.
What the hell's that got to do with anything?
Eighteen weeks of football with Domino's on speed-dial?
I abandon the shopping, descend the stairs without incident. I sense he's trying to help now, grudgingly. I stop for a few minutes to have a coffee (no cake, Heh) and then walk gingerly back to my car.
Driving is easy, comfortable. Home is safely reached. And now I'm resting in a supportive chair as I type.
Man, I want to order pizza.
So, an old friend came to visit. I guess I'll have to get to work to make sure he won't be staying.
This blog is dedicated to the Philadelphia Eagles as they begin their Superbowl XLIV campaign in Carolina on Sunday.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009