Thank you for all of your well wishes concerning my back spasm. And I was wrong. Still, no one has ever died from a back spasm. I was certain I would be the first.
After listening to me moan, groan, and generally make my misery well known, Fiddledaddy set up an appointment for me with our chiropractor.
His wife reads this blog when she has absolutely nothing better to do with her day, and she told him to be sure and ask me about my little ritual I execute when the weather turns cooler. She may have surmised that said ritual could have had something to do with the aforementioned back spasm.
It is a well known fact that when the weather turns cooler here in Armpit, Florida, I do my annual underwear dance on the back porch.
Don’t worry. The neighbors all pitched in the money to erect a 6 foot privacy fence around our property.
I assured him that no, the Annual Fall Ritual had not yet occurred, as it is clearly not Fall yet. Fall is when the temperature dips below 60 degrees. I don’t think our temperature has fallen below 112 yet.
And I’m bitter.
Anyhoo. My chiropractor told me that my muscles (and I use that term loosely) were a mess. And that the only way out of the mess to get everything back into alignment. Which was followed by the sound of breaking bones and much weeping and misery.
Actually, he just cracked a bunch of stuff, but I made sure that I screamed loud enough to frighten the patients in the waiting room.
Just kidding. Sort of.
He then recommended that I keep moving and stretching. In the direction of the exit.
Kidding again. Kind of.
Then he mentioned that magical word, MASSAGE. So I quoted that magical work MASSAGE to Fiddledaddy two or two hundred times, and he called our gym to schedule a 30 minute targeted massage with Sven.
His name is not really Sven. I’ve just always wanted to go to someone named Sven for a therapeutic massage.
Let it be known that I wasn’t so bad off that I couldn’t schedule my own massage. It’s just that I play that whole martyr “don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine” diva crap with gusto. Fiddledaddy just doesn’t buy it. Thankfully.
AND OH MY WORD. Sven worked out a whole bunch of kinks and general ugliness in my back and neck. And Fiddledaddy will forever be grateful to Sven because he caused me to STOP COMPLAINING SO MUCH!
I’m happy to announce that I can now look both ways before crossing the street.
To celebrate, we went to Disney World Hollywood Studios on Saturday. Because no weekend is complete without at least one nervous breakdown.
We were suppose to go on Friday, but I was in the fetal position Friday morning, making out my last will and testament.
We had a wonderful time, and I even rode the Tower of Terror with my Emme. I figured it would either help my spine align, or send me into traction. Either way, Ibuprofen was in my future.
And I can always call Sven.
I’m feeling fit as a fiddle now. And am anxiously awaiting a cool front. While the neighbors are making a concerted effort to keep their blinds drawn and eyes averted.