Got Yer Back

If there’s one thing you can say about me, it’s that I definitely put my back into it. And I’m not even referring to dancing.

There was a time, not in the too-distant past, when I thought myself moderately strong. Even fit. In fact, I switched gyms because I found the classes too easy-peesy. Then came Wednesday morning boot camp. It started out so innocently – five minutes of mountain climbers, jumping jacks on the mini-tramp, a set of old-fashioned burpees.

Oh, but then we moved on to the core of the workout, which, ironically, made me wish I no longer had a core. Or a back. 18 hours later, I laid in bed in the wee hours all-too-conscious of my lower back – and making my new husband all-too conscious of it too.

“Bunny, can you sleep?”

“Uh.”

“My back hurts.”

“Your back always hurts.”

“But I’m lying down and it still hurts.”

“Uh.”

Unfortunately, the breaking morning didn’t remedy my low-back woes. RP caught me trying to slip on my running shoes at 5:30 am (old habits die hard) with the grace of a 90 year-old cripple.

“Can you help me tie my shoe?”

“No, but I’ll help you back into bed.”

“I need to go running!”

“Why? You can’t even move.”

Quietly: “I might get fat otherwise.”

By noon I had turned my office into the muscle-aches section at CVS, complete with a heating pad, a cold pack, a leftover bottle of Percocet (did you know some people actually throw that stuff away after surgery??) and a package of Halls Defense (I don’t have a cold; I just like the taste).

RP has been thoroughly supportive.

“I feel terrible.”

“Get some yogurt. That usually makes you feel better.”

“It won’t help my back.”

“Get some diet coke then too.”

It’s nice that someone has my (poor pathetic) back.