Today I turned “I Threw My Back Out” years old. I feel like that’s a legit rite of passage. Like getting my period. Or passing the test for a driver’s license. Or finding my first grey hair. I have plenty of friends who’ve already passed the Licking Flames of Back Pain Fire threshold. I’m a late bloomer, I guess. No surprise, though, that I’ve taken longer than the others to mature. I mean, I still feel like I’m sneaking something when I watch shows with “for mature audiences only” warning, like I’m getting away with doing something underhanded and deliciously nefarious.
(Psst… if deliciously nefarious is your thing, too, I recommend The Great on Hulu for historical fiction peppered with “loosely based on a true story” tidbits. In a time of Global Pandemic, it’s alarmingly delightful how much I feel I have in common with Catherine the Great of Russia — an optimistic woman full of ideas thrown into an unfamiliar and uncomfortable setting and forced to contend with the gross injustices of a corrupt and ego-centric national leader. SOUND FAMILIAR, AMERICA? Yes. Yes, I thought so, too.)
But my point is, today I turned “I Threw My Back Out” years old. I decided to move rolls of sod alone, and those suckers are HEAVY, Diary. There are only a few of them… just enough to put under my hammock chairs so I’m not dragging my feet through the brown clay dirt when I want to swing and read and decompress under the wide open sky… but when you lift them wrong — say, trying to protect your shirt by holding them away from your body instead of snuggling them to your belly and lifting from your legs like Every Single PE Teacher Ever in the History of the World taught you to do — your back may protest. Your back won’t care there were only a few rolls to move. Your back will yell, “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, BETH.” And you won’t even chide your back for swearing out loud in the back yard where any passers-by, including those with small children who should theoretically be able to go for a walk without hearing cursing from the neighboring homes, can hear. You’ll just bundle your back up, hobble it and the rest of yourself inside, throw some pain relievers down your throat, and call it a day.
It’s a day, Diary.
And since it’s Friday, it’s family movie night, a new ritual for Quarantine Time. So far, we’ve watched Jumanji: The Next Level (recommend), Dead Pool 2 (recommended for “mature audiences” — we don’t really qualify, but we liked it a lot anyway — definitely DO NOT watch if you’re offended by, oh, you know, sex, drugs, violence, swearing, etc., etc., and so forth), Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (recommend — this one holds up to time), The Hustle (a remake of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels which was… meh — I was excited because it was a remake with women, but it was fat shaming, and that sucked), and a smattering of TV shows like new episodes of Doctor Who and Picard (both phenomenal). Tonight is Toy Story 4 which my entire family — other than me — has already seen, but they all want to watch me cry, so here we go.
Now if I can just figure out a way to sit on the couch with my ancient, barking back, I can get this show on the road.
You can pray for me, Diary.
P.S. Unrelated, our kids’ youth leaders showed up as an ice cream truck, handing out treats.
And I just think it’s rad the creative ways people are spreading joy in this weird, weird time.
With a lacrosse stick for 6-foot distribution purposes.
Thanks, Sammy, Rachelle, and Cara with a C!
You’re pretty damn cool.
P.P.S. IF ANYONE HAS “I THREW MY BACK OUT” TIPS, I’M ALL EARS. So far, I’ve taken ibuprofen, rubbed my favorite CBD lotion on it, and taken a hot shower. I’ve got prescription meds I can break into. I’m contemplating making a rice bag I can microwave for heat, but that seems VERY productive and I’d rather… well… not. I *could* call my doctor, but that would be proactive, and we’ve already covered that I’m not necessarily doing that right now, so… help?