Pain in the...

I used to listen to Howard Stern.  I was young, whimsical, (not so) secretly rebellious (if you knew me away from work).  And he was kinda cool.  Dorky, self-deprecating, madly in love with his wife. *swoon* 

Plus, there was a good chance that I could learn something.

One time he had a guest who said that certain so-called normal actions were actually little markers of mental illness.

Losing your keys every morning?  Instead of just saying "I don't want to go to work," you're trying to sneak out of it.  Making excuses.  (His explanation was lengthier and more detailed.  You get the gist.  Right?)

As a bona fide morning key loser (and member of a highly questionable extended family), this struck a nerve.  I did not lose my keys for more than a few seconds for years after that.  If I couldn't find them, I would simply acknowledge that I didn't want to do whatever I was trying not to do, remind myself that I had to do it anyway and then *poof* remember where I'd left my keys.

July of 2000, Corey and I were invited on our very first camping trip.  Ever.  My neighbor, Shannon (aka Sha-Nay-Nay) invited us to join her entire family on a trip to Big Bear.  My previous camping experience included "camping" in a huge and well-furnished RV during my teen years.  Oh, and that one time I spoiled the backyard sleeping bag adventure by freaking out about the coyotes that I could hear waiting to eat me as soon as I fell asleep.  (In my defense, we lived in the foothills just outside Los Angeles.  There were coyotes.  I could hear them.)

I bought sleeping bags and enough s'mores components to satisfy a small army.  I was excited!

And then I was intimidated.

What if I made a fool of us?

What if the other people didn't like me?  (No question they'd love Corey.  Just me.  This may be shocking, but I'm not exactly a new people sorta person.)

I did not lose my keys.  Nope.  My back went out.

Now I do have a history of back problems.  Mostly from ages 7 to 14, a time that encompasses almost my entire gymnastics "career" and a year of living normally afterward.  But I was 29 (about to be OLD by Sha-Nay-Nay's nine years younger mind).  I knew what it was.  It was my excuse not to go.  Once I realized this, I got down on my bedroom floor, flat on my back and stretched out while I gently scolded myself.  A few minutes later, my back was magically healed fine. 

Corey and I had a lovely time.  And I learned the correct ratio of people to s'mores ingredients is not two full-sized bars per person, with extras "just in case."

Fast forward to modern times.

Did you know that Thursdays are "Tom's night"?  They are.  Sometimes he plays softball.  For the past year or so he's been playing tennis.

Last week I finally got a night of my own.  Tuesdays.

In anticipation of selecting a night, I have driven around with almost enough gym gear.  I set myself up for the eyes of Big Brother had my fingerprints scanned so I can enter the gym I've been paying to be open just in case I care to drop in.

Last Tuesday was the big night.  My dilemma was whether I should go to the gym near work, but then drive for nearly an hour after that when I might be getting sore from my heavy-duty workout, or if I should go to the gym near home.  The big fear about going to the one at home was whether or not I'd actually go, especially since I didn't really know where it's located.

I left my office and drove about a mile to the gym.  And found a decent parking space.  (Not that I care if I have to walk a little.  It's the gym, after all.)

Where I realized I didn't have a lock.

And I had to go to the bathroom.  Which I was totally not going to do at the gym.  I mean, seriously.  Eww!

And I forgot a towel.

And if I did go in and get changed, I wasn't going to buy a lock.  I mean, c'mon!  And really, I wasn't going to schlep my work panties out the front door and come back in to work out.  Who does that?!?

So I drove away.

Went home.  Went to the bathroom.  Nursed Fynnie.  Went to the bathroom again (nerves).  And left.

And realized I still didn't know the location.  So I called Tom and he told me.

Upon arrival, I realized I didn't grab a towel.  I have one covering the passenger seat of my car so a stain doesn't show.  Nope, the baby blue towel is much less conspicuous.  I took it with me.

Went in and did the death grip on the StairMaster for 10 (long) minutes, and did some other stuff, too.  Saw that they have a dance exercise class on Tuesday nights.  I arrived too late to jump in, but I spoke with the instructor later.  She's great, and I told her I'd see her next week.

Tonight.

Only yesterday morning I woke up with my neck all kinked up.  I cannot look to the left, although my head keeps tipping that way.  Limited range toward the right.

This is the kind of pain that takes your breath away.  And, according to my coworkers, is painful just to see.  One of them, Joanie, gave me a deep tissue massage yesterday evening and again this morning.  My chiropractor is just not available during times when I could go the past few days.  Another coworker gave me an Advil.

I don't take pain meds very often, but it worked really well last night, so we bought some more.  Today it has wreaked havoc on my stomach.

Part of me is wondering if this is my lost keys.  I don't know.  I hope not.  I do have a lot of problems with my neck.  The last time I messed it up, it turned out I'd dislocated a rib.  Rolling over in bed.  (I do wish the story had more to it, but that's how it happened.)  This is, comparatively, not that bad, but it ain't great.

But I also have a long history of finding reasons not to exercise, and the flabby ass and giant thighs to prove how effective my excuses have been.

So I've decided that I may or may not go to the gym tonight, but I am going to do something.  It can't aggravate my heartburn or make me turn my neck, bend over or move up and down more quickly than your average post-operative septuagenarian.

It also cannot be here at home.  I'll let you know how it goes, and whether or not I lose my keys.