Dear Back: That’s it. You asked for it. It. Is. On. You think you have the upper hand because I am nursing and can’t take anything stronger than ibuprofen (or at least not very much of it). You think that just because it’s been five years since I got run over by a Land Rover that I might be off my guard. You think that because I had a baby who was almost 11 pounds when he arrived I am ripe for the picking. You might assume I am easy prey because I have two children under two and a half who weigh a combined 55 pounds (give or take, depending on the state of their diapers). Well you know what back? You and the horse you rode in on can kiss my ass.
I don’t like being at war with parts of my body (oh yeah, I’m looking at you, Pancreas and ex-Thyroid), but I will do what is necessary. So consider yourself on notice. You might have won this battle (as I write this lying in bed icing you), but I will use whatever force necessary to win the war.
Physical Therapy. Pilates. Running. Resting. Supportive cushions. Stern looks. Ibuprofen. Prayer. Massage. Icing. Heating. Back transplant.
Am I unbelievably irritated that you are bad enough to make me repeat blog posts? You betcha. Am I feeling a certain sense of ennui at the sheer repetitiveness of it all? Certainly.
So just knock it off before I fire you. Knock it off. You heard it here first.