I sit here this fine Saturday afternoon ruminating on the frailty of the human body, human mortality and when I might fit physical therapy into my work schedule next week.
It all began with a little crick in the neck. One I'd been nursing for last 10 days or so. I was blaming it my lame pillow. Somehow, in the holiday hub-bub, my best pillow, the one specially designed for Those Who Sleep on Their Sides, went AWOL and I ended up a limp little thing that I think has been around since the Hoover Administration. Hence, the little crick.
Which brings us to this morning. A beautiful sunny morning, I might add. Ben and I were on our morning walk in the park. There were bountiful squirrels. Little to no snow on the ground. All in all, a promising day -- perfect for a pillow-shopping expedition.
Until. With one ill-fated footstep, the entire upper right side of my body went into Red Alert. Crick in the neck had become an uber muscular meltdown. I was absolutely paralyzed. And so I staggered home -- Ben appearing somewhat embarrassed as I scrabbled along, crab-like, because I could only look to my left.
Of course, I blame it all on winter. Combine a couple tumbles on the ice with the fact that it's virtually impossible to walk normally for 4 to 5 months and you are all but guaranteed some orthopedic crisis sometime between November and March.
So here I sit, peering down from the parapets of the Nine-One-Four, Motrin by my side, neck and shoulder encased in ice packs, feeling strangely akin to Quasimodo.
What a pain in the neck.
