But it got worse. The sore neck turned into a full-fledged back spasm the next night, and by the time I woke up Friday the whole back of my neck had locked up, and I had a client meeting that morning where it was all I could do to concentrate through the pain while I presented bajillions of dollars worth of creative ideas to a moderately packed conference room.
Friday night was the little party where I met the handsome fella from the post below, and his smile alone made it worth the trouble of squaring my shoulders toward him every time he said something to me.
Saturday I spent mostly in bed. Or on the couch. Drugged up like Rush Limbaugh at a circuit party. Only with Advil. And no self-destructive hypocrites. I did manage to cook dinner for a friend that night—and for once I didn't burn the cheese bread—but eating in a civilized manner when you can't move your head in any useful direction is a bigger challenge than you'd expect.
Before I went to bed, though, I remembered I owned a heating pad I'd bought years ago for a running injury. So I spread it out on my pillow, set the thermostat to broil and actually slept through the night.
And I woke up this morning with a sore throat. Which could be from sleeping on my back, which I never do. Or else I'm dying of meningitis.
I was supposed to have some pictures taken today just for fun, and I'd been weightlifting and teeth-bleaching and bottle-tanning and fresh-haircutting and wadrobe-selecting all week to get ready. But nobody wants a picture of a hunchback, and I wasn't sure I could fake a believable smile through the pain. (Hell, I can't even fake an interesting post through the pain.) So I postponed my modeling gig for a week.
And ... um ... that's my boring little story. If any of you know Nick Lachey personally, could you send him over in a towel to give me a neck rub? I think it would really help.
Because the sooner the pain goes away, the sooner my posts become
You've been warned.
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