My back hurts. A lot.
I can sit fairly comfortably, but standing and walking are pretty much out of the question. It hurts.
I've been hemming and hawing for the past few days trying to pretend it doesn't hurt, but . . . it hurts.
I can't really figure out why it hurts. I wasn't doing anything rash like the last time I threw my back out. In fact, Baby Boy and I have been doing a lot of nothing during our Winter Break from classes. It's been heavenly.
Yesterday I decided to go to the doctor who sees the pathetically destitute and uninsured for same day appointments. Mom #2 had to work, so I hobbled myself over there, tried to find a comfortable position to sit in with those nasty-hard-waiting-room-chairs, and then proceeded to further humiliate myself by not being able to follow the perky blond nurse very well as she skipped along in front of me to the doctor's office (you know, once she finally called my name.)
I did all of that so that the doctor could come into the examining room and in sixty seconds flat call me fat (which I am, but still . . . the nerve), tell me that since I had injured my own back (in 2008, on purpose, don't you know), that he is refusing to treat me. He said that even though that was over two years ago, and I have had no incidents of back pain since then, this is now a chronic condition and can only be treated by a Pain Management Center.
Oh, and the pièce de résistance - he also mentioned that the only Pain Management Center that would even consider working within the financial terms I can afford is . . . [drum roll please] . . . about 100 miles away.
With the price of gas these days - AS IF!
So, in conclusion, my back hurts.
We'll just leave it at that for now.
Until next time . . .
. . . around first light, while everyone else slept off their over-indulgences from the previous night's festivities, a couple of giggling girls shoved a few necessities into a couple of overnight bags and pointed their car in the direction of the nearest beach. Along the highway they sang songs, took photos, discussed all their hopes and dreams, ingested large quantities of junk food, and threw all their cares into the wind.
As they neared their destination, someone mentioned that there were no flowers. No problem! They stopped off at a Kroger and picked up a dozen yellow grocery store roses and a scrap of blue ribbon and made a quickie bouquet from eleven of them and an even quicker boutonniere from the snapped-off-bloom of the last one. It was so silly, crafty, and just plain fun! Luckily, one of those giggling girls always has a safety pin at her immediate disposal.
When they reached their beach front hotel room, they tossed their bag on the bed, kicked off their shoes, and ran to wiggle their toes in the luxurious sand. It was a little chilly, but still hypnotic. The beach has always had that alluring draw. There were only a few precious moments to spare before heading to the Chapel. Eventually, that afternoon, the two girls held hands and giggled through the chat with the Reverend, wishing he'd just get on with it already.
Finally with nerves tingling, hands sweating, hearts beating, spray from the beach at their backs, and the sound of the waves pounding in their ears . . . vows were exchanged. The ceremony was quickly followed by a phone call to a certain Baby Boy to let him know that we were all officially a family now. It happened so fast, it's all a blur, although we'll never forget 01/01/01. Our favorite day in the whole wide world.
So that's why in this house, we refer to New Year's Day as
