You're Outta There!

I'm all about throwing things out.

Fingernail polish that is so dried the little shaker ball is stuck on one side of the bottle?  Out it goes.  That unmarked tupperware in the back of the fridge that doesn't resemble anything you've cooked in the last six months?  Tossed.  The prescription pain meds leftover from one of your kids random injuries which expired eleven months ago?  Uh, that probably has another good year or so but come 2014 -totally throwing it out.

I've seen coaches thrown out of sporting events, batters thrown out at home plate, and footballs thrown out of bounds.  There are other things I totally support throwing out like junk mail, suggestions, even bad ideas like:

"Hey wouldn't it be cool to be the millionth person to jump off a bridge over a dry river bed on the same bungee cord as the 999,999 people before me?"

No.  Crap no!  Throw that out.  Way out!

At the risk of over-overstating my point, I had no qualms with throwing things out...until...

This past Wednesday was moving along like most typical days.  I remember getting the kids off to school.  I remember having a quick lunch with Tim and then sending him off for a doctor's appointment on the other side of town.  I remember putting Justus down for a nap and beginning to straighten the house.

I do NOT remember at any point that day, even for a smidgen of a second, thinking "Today, I should like to throw out my back."  Nope.  Never thought it.  Who would?  It's crazy.

And while "I threw my back out" may be the most easily understood description of my plight to the general public, I take issue with its accuracy level and would prefer to offer my own personal interpretation of what happened--

At 2:02 PM, Wednesday, January 16th, my lower back packed her bags, smacked a "Dear John" letter on the table, sucker punched me on the way out, and left me writhing on the floor like a wounded animal.

The letter read as follows:

Dear John,
(I don't know why my back calls me John when she knows my name is Amie. shrug)
I'm done.  I'm done with your poor lifting technique, putting all the pressure on me instead of those flabby thighs of yours, and your awkward cross reaching and lack of support from your weak, flabby core.  You may be all into self-acceptance these days but who do think is carting around that extra twenty pounds on your flabby behind?  That's right.  Me.  And I'm done.

Out,
Your Back

I grappled with the reality of it all for an hour and a half on the cold hardwood floor while waiting for my middle schooler to get home and help me to the couch.  What could I say to my back except "you're right" and "I'm sorry" and "I find your use of the word 'flabby' both harsh and excessive"?  Dang.

I've been wooing my back uh...back with long stints on a heating pad, lots of pillows tucked under strategic locations, and some slow, careful stretches.  I feel the evidence of her gradual return but realize that it may take time to get a full commitment out of her.  That's okay as long as she knows it was never my intention to "throw her out".

In the meantime, I'm glad I didn't throw out those expired pain meds. =)