A big part of me, the part that constantly supports me, and I desperately need to get through the day, left, the better part of three weeks ago. No, it’s not my mojo that I’ve cried about losing but persevered and got it back.
It started with an annoying twinge of bad things to come. Suddenly, the situation deteriorated. Like a twangy country western song about some two timing loser that went out for a quart of milk and ended up skipping town. I was suddenly kicked to the curb.
Gosh dang it, my back abandoned me!
The worst part about my back going out, after having to ask the Big Irishman (hubby, light of my life, ball and chain) to help me off the commode, is that everyone has helpful advice to dispense.
An old college buddy, invited me out to Boulder, Colorado and promised to fix me right up. My immediate desperate thought was why not? Marijuana is legal out there and I have a legitimate medical ailment. But alas, no way can I sit on a plane for four hours. Plus I’d probably gain 10 pounds eating her magic brownies. Scratch that advice!
Next, my favorite local chef, who stands on his feet 12 hour a day, swore that a perfectly chilled gin martini, followed in rapid succession by a second one, will unkink my back faster that I could spell bouillabaisse. First thought was, thank god I hate gin, and second was that bouillabaisse is a very tricky word and recipe. I pray that he makes mine before self-medicating. Scratch that!
My trusted chiropractor told me to place my butt at the bottom of a wall and rest my legs straight up against the wall. Naturally, I can think of much better things to do with my legs in the air. Plus I can’t type in that position. Scratch!
Finally, my always fabulous friend, Janeann, told me to visit her trusted massage therapist. This sounded like sane advice, until she followed up with, “plus he’s a shaman. “ Say what?! Instantly, I pictured a lot of incense, which would inevitably set off a coughing fit, and then I’d never be able to get off the massage table. Plus, I’d be so nervous that he’d conjure up some of my past demons in an effort to cure me, that my psyche would end up whacked way farther out than my wayward back. Oh what a shame. Scratch yet again!
Maybe it’s the deep slow breathing. Maybe it’s the venting through my blog. Maybe it’s the laughs, because laughter is good medicine. Maybe it’s the strong arms of the Big Irishman assuring me that it’s going to pass. But I’m feeling better all ready.
Thanks for listening. No advice necessary!