So it’s like this: one Sunday, I got up and my back was a little creaky. It’s always given me trouble–when I was 16, I managed to fall off a house I was roofing, and it’s been a bit weird ever since. So much for working with my hands. Anyway, by midday Monday, I realized something was a little more wrong than expected; I couldn’t sit through the day. I went to my doctor on Tuesday, figuring it’d be, oh yeah, it’s out of alignment, crunch, here’s a couple prescriptions and remember to bend your knees. The usual drill every three to five years.
Well, no. This time he gave me that grave look that I think they have doctors practice in mirrors at medical school (in a big room resembling a dance studio): you have a bulging disk. (I checked the impulse to reply “Or are you just happy to see me” because the interior voice was going “uh-oh.”) Not the end of the world, very common, but it’s taking longer to get over than usual, and I’m spending a good part of my off-work time horizontal in this narcotized cocoon. Which sounds great at first, but, after awhile, you find yourself repeating Major Tom’s mantra in “Ashes to Ashes”: want to come down right now! Plus it’s kind of thrown a curve into my many nefarious plans–being a photographer, playwright, theatregoer, gardener, and, of late, guitar slinger. (I definitely need to branch out more, no?)
So, to my theatre friends: sorry I’ve been missing your shows. I’d like to go, but I seem to be having this problem with gravity.