What's In The Box? Pain!

Last Tuesday afternoon I was feeling quite ick. Tired, grumpy, headachy, and looking forward to collapsing once I got home. This often works well, because C-Man is usually more than willing to make dinner, listen to my pitiful whining, take The Dog out after listening to her pitiful whining, help me find my pajamas, etc. I figured he would also put away the groceries I had lugged home from Wheatsville on the bus so I could maintain my "woe is me, I'm so helpless" identity. He's an enabler.

When I arrived home, though, I saw two packages on my porch. What is this madness? Why are there packages? Why didn't C-Man take the packages in?

Oh, damn. I forgot. C-Man is teaching until 5:30.

I entered my abode in despair. The Dog grabbed her tennis ball and gurgled/mooed/growled at me happily. (Note: I have no idea how to accurately describe that noise. All I know is I have to reassure strangers that she isn't fixin' to take a chunk out of anyone.) I shoved the groceries wherever they fit in the fridge, taking no care for organization. After all, if I'm too tired to organize my own fridge, then I must be in trouble and someone should show up and take care of me, right?

I was about to throw my backpack on the floor and collapse on the chair when I finally got annoyed with myself.

"Dagnabit," I said to myself, except I probably didn't, but I don't think I use that word enough, "You lived by yourself for a year and a half before you even met this guy, and somehow during all that time you never missed dinner or ended up sleeping on the couch because you couldn't get to bed and find your own damn pajamas. Get a grip! Clean up the apartment a little and make some dinner! It won't even take an hour!"

So I did. C-Man got home feeling lousy, but I already had dinner in progress and had cleaned up enough to feel sane, so I could take care of him for a change.

Then I made my fatal mistake.

I made a very similar speech to the one above OUT LOUD. And I added this: "I can actually do things for myself, dammit!"

At first, it seemed fine. We ate dinner and went to bed. The next morning, the alarm went off. I shushed it and stretched.

The stretching caused a stabbing, icepick-like pain in my neck, and it didn't stop. IT WAS THE WORST PAIN I CAN EVER REMEMBER FEELING! EVEN DRINKING WATER CAUSED INTENSE PAIN! AND C-MAN HAD TO DO ALMOST EVERYTHING FOR ME FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS.* I couldn't even brush my hair! And I tell you, I was willing to take it on faith from people who have grown dreadlocks that your head stops itching if you don't wash your hair for long enough. I didn't need to find out directly!

And that, my friends, demonstrates very clearly the value of knowing when to shut the hell up.

* Except for the car ride to the doctor (when I finally admitted the Aleve wasn't going to do it), because he doesn't have a car. So my saintable friend C. drove, on what must have been her favorite road trip EVER due to my crying and shrieking in the passenger seat every time she started, stopped, accelerated, or turned the vehicle. It's not that I objected to the driving. It's just that every time I moved my head even slightly, the pain in my neck exploded so badly that I couldn't think, breathe, or want to live any further than that second. The Bene Gesserit would never have let me be the Kwisatz Haderach.