For the second time in recent history, sitting in chairs for extended time while writing a paper causes my back and hip to rebel. For days I am incapacitated to the point that I sleep sitting up, eat an entire bottle of rapid-release acetaminophen (after naproxen and ibuprofen both prove themselves useless) to minimal relief, and buy out the local pharmacy of every tube of menthol-infused pain-relief gel they sell. It takes twelve days of slow recovery, amidst panicking that perhaps I have ruptured a kidney, before I feel ready to attack the grocery store for a much-needed resupply of such important items as hummus and crackers and paper towels.
This semi-recovery surprises my son who arrives home Wednesday to find dinner has been cooked: Chicken broccoli ziti and crescent rolls. And I don't just cook a small batch; I cook enough to feed the entire neighborhood. After cleaning up from my kitchen adventure, I lather my right flank with the peppermint-stench of heat-relief and flop into bed.
For the first time in weeks, I sleep comfortably and soundly for six straight hours and wake up feeling almost normal. There are even stretches of time during the day that I forget I hurt myself. Well, until the school Geography Bee. I have to fold myself into the small seat in the auditorium, and that lasts about twenty minutes before I have to get up, hobble to the back of the theater, and press my back against the flat wall for some pain relief.
Based on my extreme ziti cooking and by my recent gimpiness, my son has begun to lose faith in my ability to keep up my end of the housekeeping bargain, mainly my ability to put food on the table. Late this afternoon, I receive the following text as he is leaving work for the day --
SON: Gonna head to Game Stop. I assume you're having leftovers, judging by the amount (of chicken broccoli ziti) that's left?
This is child-speak for "I'm going to get myself a fabulous take-out dinner and won't worry about ma because she's probably picking broccoli out of her teeth as I type this message."
ME: Nope. Making sloppy joes and Annie's white cheddar pasta.
There is a slight pause here. Annie's is the new go-to junk food in our house. As a matter of fact, I bought my son an entire case of the stuff when I went shopping. Suddenly my phone dings with a new text message.
SON: Okay. I'm heading home.
Victory is mine, proving to me, mentally anyway, that I truly am on the road to recovery. Later, we cooperate while baking some Pillsbury reindeer sugar cookies.
The only problem is that all this eating and sitting around causes my already fat ass to get even fatter, which started this whole fiasco in the first place. Oh, well. The pharmacy must've stocked up on menthol pain gel by now, anyway, so I'm good to go.
