I Will Back Down


Backs are like oxygen and caffeine and volume on headphones; you take ’em for granted until they’re taken from you. And that, friends, is where I sit this moment: teetering on the very edge of some very real, pain-in-the-ass pain in my lower backular region.

So, pro tip: all that stuff that they tell you about taking care of your back? You know, stretching, lifting with your legs, et cetera? Yeah, it’s probably a good idea to do it. Because I didn’t, and right now, I’m ready to murder my own spine.

Granted, this isn’t as bad as it could be; a few years back, I was absolutely flattened by back pain, the sole benefit of which was that I spent the time beating Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. This time, I’m just very, very sore, bent over like one of the early-to-middle pictures in the Ascent of Man, shuffling along at one-tenth speed, popping Aleve and Tylenol and whatever else I can find to dull the pain. But hey, at least I have this here Internet.

Worst part is, I wasn’t even doing anything cool when I injured my back. I didn’t save a busload of orphans or win a U.S. Open or anything. I was slinging bags of mulch. Mulch! The very name is about as unheroic as you can get. (Apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Mulch, wherever you are.)

This is the point where I should note the fragility of life or the stupidity of wearing flip-flops or something more overarching and metaphorical. But I’ll save that for when the meds kick in.


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