I have been on a tear about getting my house in order. (No, not my metaphorical house. The actual building in which I keep my bed, my clothes, my piano, my guitars and my Sabon skin cream.) I had my bedroom painted not long ago (by a member of "the family," a lovely, strapping woman who can-do literally everything you can think of in the way of home repair). The walls are a soft green, the ceiling is lavender, and the trim is glossy white.
On Saturday she was painting my front porch. Inside, I was inspired (after my sermon was finished) to hang pictures. A lot of them. Everything from a gorgeous framed poster of Nijinsky in his "La Spectre de la Rose" garb to two little lithographs of street scenes of San Francisco to a pencil drawing done of my dad in uniform, when he was on R and R in the Philippines in 1944. Also, posters-- show posters, from productions my children and I have been in.
Anyway, I attacked my hanging project with tremendous enthusiasm. I climbed. I hammered. I fastened screws. I broke a sweat. When all was said and done, the inside of my upstairs was really looking very spiffy and intentional. And my right hip was feeling a little funky.
Despite carrying around a lot of excess weight most of my adult life, I've been remarkably free of ill-effects. Having lost around 100 lbs last year has only helped my joints. But as Saturday night progressed, and Beloved and I changed our plans to accomodate my growing discomfort, I went into a full-blown... I don't know what, but it hurt like hell. I barely slept Saturday night.
On Sunday morning I rose early to give myself enough time to get to church. I worked through the logistics of the service: I would go up the three chancel steps at the beginning, and only go down to stay down. I would do the children's message from up there. I would only go to the main floor at the benediction.
I got through the service alright, but the pain by this point was making me dizzy. I went to the walk-in clinic, where I received confirmation that, yes indeed, I had pulled a muscle. Really badly. They told me to take that pill Dr. House fancies, and I have been taking them by halves, only when the pain is really intolerable. (At 1:47 this morning, for example).When I got home from the walk-in, Beloved essentially watched me sleep (she also read the New York Times and the local rag).
I have had a lot of time to lie around and think about pain; reading, when the pain is that bad, is out of the question.
I basically have no insight to offer on pain, except to say that it is awful, and this is just a piddly little muscle ache, not bone cancer for heaven's sake. I'm kind of ashamed at what a baby I am. But holy toledo, I have been in agony, I have had to cancel everything for the next 48 hours, and I have been ordering poor Petra around to boot. (Actually, we had a cozy day. When the House pills kicked in we started watching season 3 of "The Gilmore Girls." We just watched the episode where Francie and Rory go head to head, and then Petra went off to a rehearsal for the next play she's appearing in.)
So, I'm in pain. Dumb pain (because I don't even know when/how I injured myself). And... no insight. It's just awful. Must remember that.