The Pain, The Pain

It's a beautiful day. We get about three of these in New Jersey every season. Today is bright and breezy. It's like a song by the New Christy Minstrels.

And this is one of those weekends where at least a hundred fascinating, fun, and entertaining things are happening. Why couldn't they spread these over a month or two?

One of the things happening this weekend - right now - is The A Capella Singers Annual Wing Ding. I am not there. I am here. I am here at my desk in my chair because I know those no-nonsense Quaker benches would hurt me a lot. And I don't link the singers with pain.

There are things I should be doing around the house. I am not doing them. I am going to take a Vicodin and read a Barbara Ehrenreich book from the library. The Vicodin might make me sleepy but the whiny Ehrenreich book will have me steamed up enough to stay awake.

I am in pain. Not the double-over kind of pain, just the kind where you think, if I don't move, I'll be okay. Where's the heating pad? Where's my maid? Why won't the cats do the dishes?

It's my back. And my hip. And my neck. Yes, I know. I need to see a doctor. I saw a doctor two weeks ago, who recommended that I have an MRI. I need a referral and permission from my HMO and despite many calls to the parties in authority, still do not have an appointment for an MRI.

Today, I managed to go out for breakfast, get money from the ATM, and went to the library to make amends for my life of crime and pay an astronomical library fine. And I think that's my limit until I reach the Vicodin saturation point. I suddenly understand Dr. Geoffrey House more than I ever wanted to and share his opinion about mere Tylenol.