Hot Pants & I love to do things together, even though we live at opposite ends of the USA. However, I may have taken our closeness too far by throwing out my back in solidarity with HP’s own spinal troubles.
In retrospect, my pride at hauling in all five bags of groceries (and my pocketbook) in one mighty dash from car to house may not have been my smartest move after all. Since that Olympic-quality lifting episode, I’ve been lurching around like Frankenstein and barking out “Ouch” – along with a roster of handy curses – at every step. Even lying down – quite possibly my favorite position in life – offers treacherous moments in my futile search for a neutral pose.
Adding mental anguish to my physical pain, I’ve learned that as a Shop Girl, my paid sick time expired at the end of the calendar year. Little did I realize that we worker bees must time our getting ill to the latter months when we can get paid for our suffering. Silly me, injuring myself in January.
The Lord & Master has been most solicitous, though lurking behind his concern is the fear that it may be eons before I’m physically able to engage in acrobatic sexual hijinks with him. (And given our mutual lack of fitness in general, we’re forced to invent ever more original poses to achieve the desired, ahem, …results.)
Even sitting here at my desk hurts like hell. So, Dear Readers, I shall jolt my way back to bed with an ice pack, if you don’t mind.