I Pulled My Hammy Trying to Get You Out of That Hamper Last Time

A post for etk.

I was out for my run this afternoon, which considering the agony conditions of my illipsoas (ill-ee-o-so-as), my piriformis (peer-if-for-mis) and last but not least my quadratus lumborum (quad-ray-dus lum-bore-um) is in, I'm surprised I got moving at all. In other words, my entire lower back along with my bootay has twinges of aches & pains - always. It is not my favorite feeling. A bit like nails on a chalkboard. Of which, I don't enjoy that either.

You see, back in December of 2007 I injured my back by being a bonehead bicycle junkie. I rode 4.5 hours, which I know is not very strange in and of itself. But you need to comprehend (1) I hadn't ridden my bicycle in about 6 months for that long of a distance and (2) I was, unknowingly, in the wrong gear the entire time. And not the good kind either. The husband noticed this wrong gear as we were finishing our ride. It was about the time that I had hard-core bonked, so-to-speak. It was a moment of brilliance on my part. One that I had not noticed until it was too very late.

So, since that time, I've been to a few massage therapists, a doctor as well as trying my own bit of voodoo. Nothing worked. [I have since been studying "Myofascial Pain & Dysfunction: the trigger point manuals Vol. 1&2". Which is where I have discovered my calling. To do more clinical work with my massage therapy once I'm done with school. It beats working in a spa. I'm too loud and obnoxious for that. Clearly.

Anyhow, this is not the point of my post. I have never shied away from digressing, but I tell you all this to say that while time and some massage therapy along with bottles of Ibuprofen, my back is slowly getting back to semi-semi-normalcy. Not much, but a little.

Today, we had a substitute instructor for massage class. We were to study pre-natal massage, but when the instructor got to my bum all hell broke loose. It did. shoish!Idonotexaggerate! She spent 45-minutes working trigger point therapy on my a**. It was torment. I could barely get off the table when she was finished. It had to be done and I understand this. I'll explain why if anyone is interested in another post. I cannot deviate that far off the path. geeoish. [Oh. Right. I should also mention here that I am not with parasite child. No, no - nothing like that. We all were to lie on the pregnancy pillows to understand how they worked and felt while we received a massage that was to be similiar to a pre-natal massage. M'kay?]

Muscle spasms are not our friends. Neither is the zombie plague. Or barf.

I'm just sayin'.

Back to my run. . . . and the whole point of this post.

So, I still decided to take my joggie-jog today regardless of the pain in my arse. Miracle? I don't know, but while I was out and about I saw this

drive by me. It doesn't seem like much, does it? But(!) a memory from my time way down south came slowly flooding back to me:

One night, as I was single in the city, I stayed home. Shocking. I know. But every now and then a singleton needed their Friday nights in-house with a bubble bath, a good flick, some wine and maybe even a good book. So there I was alone in my apartment with the ever faithful Chobie (my dog, people. My canine.) For some reason, I decided at around 12:30 AM it was in my best interest to look outside. I really don't know why. I just did. Only to see my very, very, very, very, very inebriated upstairs neighbor get home.

Yes, he drove. Yes, he was in his Cadillac just like the one you see posted above. Yes, his carport was right. next. to. mine. ***bum-baaa-dum*** I was horrified. No, thankfully, he did not hit my cute and perfect little Subaru. I've got to tell you, opening a can of whoop-arse on a drunk-arse isn't so festivus.

Though, I did watch this crapulent sot man tumble out of his car and splat himself face first onto the pavement. He was a train wreck. You don't want to see it, but you can't take your eyes off it. He made several attempts at finding his feet on solid ground. Obviously, he was unable to do so. Instead, he crawled to his door handle, sat up on his knees and took another 5-minutes to find his key in the door lock. Once that was complete, he then decided to crawl across the parking lot and up three flights of floors to his apartment.

That was the way of things for this guy.

The next morning, I asked the front office for a garage.



The end.