Nov. 4: An open letter to my back

Dear Spine o’ Mine:

Why you gotta be so mean?

Alright, I know I’ve taken some good spills this year, and I know they’ve hurt you. How many times do I need to apologize for that? I didn’t fall on purpose! I walked around with a big, black bruise on my chin for a month—you think you were hurt worse than my pride was? And two weeks later, when I had another great fall, I nearly lost an eye and was FrankenJen for weeks afterward. Don’t you think that if I was trying to hurt YOU that I wouldn’t have hurt myself in other visible places?

But besides that, have I really punished you that much over the years? You’ve obviously forgotten about the time I gave up ever being able to do a cartwheel—I was young and you were bendier then, but STILL I didn’t push you, and I have never in my life done a real cartwheel without four spotters. Wasn’t that nice of me, to take you into consideration?

You might remember that my gymnastics training ended at a young age. Maybe my mom saw the futility of gymnastics ever helping me to develop gracefulness and poise, or maybe my instructor kicked me out of class for being an embarrassment. But shouldn’t you be kinda grateful, Spine o’ Mine, that the most gymnastic maneuver I ever mastered is the somersault? And I hardly ever even do one! I ask so little of you.

I have good posture.

I always bend at the knees because I know this alleviates stress on you.

I rarely walk like an Egyptian.

I never run down the stairs. It’s bad for you. Taking the stairs slowly and without excessive stomping also decreases the velocity at which I’ll tumble down them, because I always, always tumble down them. But that’s beside the point. I try to take it easy on you—that’s what I’m saying.

And I bought you that incredibly expensive and fancy mattress this year. BECAUSE I CARE. But have you let me sleep on it? No.

I’ve never been big on much exercise, but I do walk a lot, and I always wear super supportive shoes for you. Okay, they may not always be supportive, but I can promise that they’re always the cutest thing you ever did see. I like cute shoes. Sometimes fashion has to hurt, you know that.

Speaking of doing things just for looks—and let’s just forget the shoes for a minute, please—I’ve never pierced you or anything near you. Never tattooed you either. I keep you shielded from excessive sun exposure.  I got you that spray tan last year and you looked damn good. What else can I do to show you that I care?

I’ve gotten you re-aligned, massaged, x-rayed, and adjusted. I regularly heat you and soak you in warm water.

But now you never stop hurting. You won’t let me lie on my back or sides for more than ten seconds before I jump up in terrible pain. Sometimes you spasm all day long. Even sitting up, which is the only way I can relax anymore—if you can call that “relaxing” (I don’t)—you hurt me. You laugh at ibuprofen—I swear I can hear you. If I sweep or mop the floor, you put me in excruciating pain for hours. It hurts after I try to do all kinds of things around the house—laundry, clean the bathroom, pull weeds, wash the car, or pick up crap the kids leave around the house. Blogging takes hours now, since I can’t sit for more than a few minutes at a time. The dogs hate that I never lay down because they have no one with which to cuddle. Victor has to do pretty much all of the household chores. The kids think I’m always always always grouchy (I am). Trying to get through a day without angering you has everyone in the house on edge. All the inactivity is making me fatter too.

I suspect you’ve given up on me, Spine o’ Mine, and I’d really like to know why—but if you won’t give me an answer, I don’t care, AS LONG AS YOU STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE.

Pretty please?

Love,