So thanks to the power of advanced 21st-century medicine, here's what I've learned:
- I've strained a neck muscle. Surprise!
- There are muscle relaxants that could help, but I can't take them because I'm still nursing Sam, and I have no desire to add the stress of cold-turkey weaning to either of our lives.
- I could try massage therapy, but it won't yield results before Sam and I are scheduled to fly across the country this Saturday.
Then I went out to the reception area, picked up my 28-lb toddler, who had rendered himself temporarily weightless for my benefit (he's thoughtful that way), and who certainly DIDN'T kick and writhe and arch his back in fury when I tried to strap him into the stroller, resulting in me carrying him and our tote bag and pushing the stroller out the door. (Oh, and memo to the sour-faced dink who sat stonily in her seat and didn't offer to help because the blank spot on the wall she was staring at was clearly so fucking fascinating that she didn't want to miss a minute of it: THANK YOU. I hope that, someday, someone extends the same courtesy to you, toots. And while I'm dictating memos, here's one to the guy who almost mowed over me and Sam as we were heading to my appointment: I'm sure the glare coming off the hood of your shiny new Hummer must've temporarily blinded you, causing you to not even SLOW DOWN as you careened past the stop sign and into the pedestrian walkway, and I'm SO SORRY I startled you when I yelled just in time for you to come to a screeching stop a mere foot away from my baby. I sure hope the rest of your day has been swell. But seriously... a Hummer? You've got to be fucking kidding me. I really want to stop ascribing stereotypes to people, but why do people make it so hard?)
The only shining spot in my day so far was when Rusty, who is often mysteriously attuned to my moods even if he doesn't understand that any dish with the word "carbonara" in it contains loathesome bacon, called me from work and asked if I wanted a ride home from the doctor's office. Why, yes. Yes, I did.
So now I'm back home, too grouchy and consternated to write about books. I can see how misanthropes are created. If it weren't for all you nice people who live inside the internet, my faith in humanity would be, if not shattered, then at least tattered and vaguely mildewy. Give yourselves a pat on the back from me, okay?
P.S. I was searching for a visual metaphor to describe the the little bundles of pain scattered beneath my skin, and this was the closest I could find: