As if I'm not miserable enough, I find another way to make myself feel worse.
I hurt my back.
How, you ask?
Not from lifting heavy patients.
Not from pushing beds or shelving boxes.
Not from moving my furniture or doing manual labor.
Not even from working out.
I sneezed.
I was getting my breakfast when I sneezed, and then my back went out.
I wish there was some other manly story that would justify this injury, but no.
So for the rest of the day, I was walking around like a bent, old fart, shuffling from one side of the room to the other, holding my back and grimacing with every move that required me to sit, stand, bend, or twist. If this is what we have to look forward to when we hit retirement, I say, let me die quickly the day before and no later.
If I ever find out that someone was using a voodoo doll on me...they can be sure that I will come down upon them with the wrath of Jack Bauer (because God is on Jack's side).
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