I spent a goodly chunk of time this weekend in the garage at my old house, sorting though boxes of mixed crap and old household records. Yes, it was every bit as exciting as it sounds.
Some of these boxes were aging piles of crap cleared from countertops while preparing for a kitchen remodel. In 2004. Some were filled with household records so old that I didn't recognize my own handwriting. I mean, it was almost... legible!
Over the course of the two days I sorted each and every of those
I tackled the fucker and it was mine.
Or so I thought.
Today I went in for PT, anticipating an uncomfortable but therapeutic 'stretching' session, as they so euphemistically put it. The tech starting moving my arm and...
Oh HELL no.
My shoulder was having none of it. Not even a little. The tech tried, very gently, to stretch it out for about 15 minutes as I tried to bite through my tongue while doing a horizontal butt-crawl off the table. Finally she admitted defeat, strapped on the ice pack, and told me we'd best wait till next time.
So what in the hell did I do, anyway? Sorting boxes? Yeah, I picked up a few to put them on the table, but so what. I carry groceries all the time. The walk? I can't even fucking walk any more without screwing myself up? I just don't get it.
Whatever the cause, I am pissed. And sore. To add insult to injury, I wasted a perfectly good hour of sick time this morning on it, too.
Oh, there will be chocolate this afternoon. Count on it.