Sometimes it’s not good to inherit things from one’s parents. From my father, sciatica. Thank god for inheriting my mother’s sense of humour. Though all that giggling as I crawled toward the medicine cabinet at 4am would probably be cause to have me committed, if anyone saw me.
I’m sure my body could have come up with a politer way to tell me that I shouldn’t try to both swim and dance the weekend away in a nightclub. At least not without a ready supply of painkillers bought in advance. I guess it’s time I picked just one way of abusing my body, and it should probably be swimming. The thought of that hurts more than the sciatica.
Owwwwww. Maybe not.
Related posts: