Why you shouldn't get older

Before I begin to complain about my back, let me acknowledge the fact that there are people with problems way worse than my own (including Ellen's now-resolved back thing, which makes mine look like a paper cut). My major organs are still working. I haven't been burned severely (other than multiple occasions in my romantic life that have long since passed). I can get from one place to another with little difficulty, I don't curse uncontrollably, I drool less than many people, and I generally have no problem controlling my body's waste disposal functions.

That said, this back thing has started to suck. Wednesday night, Meghan and I stood at Firehouse Subs and waited for our food. When our orders were filled, I reached to the counter to grab the sandwiches and head for the door. The bag slipped slightly from my hand as I grabbed it, and I flinched to catch it.

That's when I felt it - a seizing pain that reached down from my shoulder to my ass. I recognized it from last spring as something like a muscle strain. As before, it gradually became difficult to sit or walk throughout the course of the evening. I tried to sleep but had trouble doing so, as I knew I was in for a hell of time this when I woke.

When I finally developed the moxie to rise Thursday morning, it took about three minutes and ten utterances of the phrase "C'mon, Brett" to bring my body to the standing position. I walked to the kitchen leading with the genitals, as though I was being drawn in whatever direction I was moving by a piece of fishing twine sutured to my lower abdomen. As you can imagine, the process of making breakfast, showering, and collecting my belongings were labored at best and miserable at worst.

If you're still reading through the inevitable pity you must feel for me, then you may enjoy imagining the process of my putting on socks and shoes when I was alone and basically unable to bend at the waist. I had managed to kick my shorts far enough up my leg from a seated position that I could reach them with a bended knee well enough to lift them above what butt I have. After this, I laid carefully on the bed and managed to grab my shoes and socks and lay them on my chest. I began with one sock and thoughtfully placed it around the fingers of my right hand, oriented so that I could drag and pull the sock onto my foot with one hand. After putting the sock on - a process which took about ninety seconds - I moved to the shoe. I put the opposite foot flat on the bed with bended knee. I rotated the hip and bent the knee of the foot onto which the shoe was to go, placing the foot on top of the other knee. I gradually stretched the hamstring of the leg as the foot came down my angled thigh at a rate of about one inch per minute, until I could get the tip of my toes far enough into the shoe to keep the shoe on. Five minutes later I managed to stretch the hamstring far enough to painfully reach the shoe with my hands well enough to get it completely on my foot and tie it in the worst common bow knot I have tied since second grade.

I repeated the process for the other foot.

At this point, I was concerned that I would get to Winder (where my therapy sessions are) and be forced to call Big Oob for a ride home. He, of course, would get mad and assume that I was drunk, which I wouldn't be... though I couldn't fault him for thinking so. This did not happen, but needless to say the ride to Winder, Athens, and then home was not so great. Walking around downtown Athens like I had inflamed hemorrhoids was worse.

But the worst part was the frustration at being unable to care for myself. Though my issues were relatively minor, I really began to feel for those whose bodies have failed them. I dread any future day when I feel as helpless as I did on Thursday. And I can't wait to be able to bend at the waist, sit without grunting, or stand for five minutes without looking like I'm about to take a dump.