Waiting for the Mate

I think I pinched a nerve in my shoulder the other day*. I remember when it happened. I was listening to the woman who sits next to me at work talk about having arthritis in her neck and thinking about how awful that would be, and then I bent down to put a piece of paper in my recycling bin and felt a twinge between my scapula and my spine.

“Ouch,” I thought, straightening up and stretching. “Hope that doesn’t get worse in a couple of days.”

It hurt a little bit when I got home on Friday night, a bit more when I sat down to dinner, and a lot when we arrived at the bowling alley (because that’s what you do on Friday nights when you’re 30, duh). I bowled one game – badly, but not because of my shoulder, I’m just a terrible bowler – and sat out the second one, and instead of going to the studio and playing ping pong afterwards, I went home and whimpered myself to sleep.

It used to be that the only good part about being sick or in pain was going to sleep, because while I slept, I couldn’t feel shitty. Now that I’m older and don’t sleep as deeply, I dream about being sick. I dream about being in pain. Last night, I dreamed about being in pain and work, which was quite an accomplishment for my asshole brain seeing as though it’s the weekend and what does it think it was doing, anyway?

I guess it’s a good thing that it’s cold, windy and rainy out and as such, I am under no obligation to go anywhere today. I mean, I went to Walgreen’s earlier for tampons and a heating pad, even though I spent at least 10 minutes in bed debating whether or not I should just call Postmates to get those things for me, ultimately deciding that if I would rather make a complete stranger buy period supplies for me because I am unwilling to drag my lazy, hurty ass out of bed to go to the drugstore, then I deserve to be in such breath-stopping pain because that is a real dick move.

This is not to say that an injury like this isn’t a terrific excuse to place a Ba Bar order via Postmates for some food. Because it is. And I just did (go, Francisco Javier Middlename Lastname, go!). Of course, this assumes I will actually be able to get off the couch when the guy arrives, which is currently a bit of a struggle involving rocking back and forth, grimacing, and cursing a lot before hunchback-shuffling across the room.

I always feel bad for the delivery people who have to see me like that. I mean, that’s usually why I get delivery, anyway. I’m sick, I’m hurt, I’m gross and can’t take the necessary steps to make myself acceptable to be seen in public. One of these days I’m going to call for delivery just because, and I’m going to look cute, and I won’t need to see the look of barely concealed horror on someone’s face because I am gross.

*It’s probably a pinched nerve, although Graham said he felt a knot/lump when he rubbed my back the other day. So, you know, it might be an alien spore that’s attached itself to my vertebrae and is slooooowly climbing it’s way up the ladder to my brain. And if that’s the case, then know I had an okay run, it was fun while it lasted, and at the very least, I hope the alien life form reprograms stuff up there to at least omit the work dreams in the future.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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