When I was a kid, I awoke one morning with my neck in spasm. The pain was intense, but what made it worse was that my head was actually stuck in an awkward position; I was like a background singer for a Motown star, head twisted over my shoulder like so:
But I was only eight years old when this happened, so I only wished I looked like that. Hell, I’m 31 and would be hard pressed to pull off that Betty Grable getup.
Anyway, I wake up, my neck twisted and I realize something horrifying; my mother had purchased a small box of Captain Crunch the day before and that shit was going to fly out the door once my three brother’s were up and at ’em. I cry out for help, my voice growing louder the longer that I am unheard. The sounds of my helpless cries were probably being drowned out by the loud cereal munching and and inadvertent sugary assault to the gums and roof of mouth. Ah, the ecstasy and the agony of that delicious breakfast treat.
Finally, knowing not to expect one of those medic St Bernard dogs bounding through the door, not even this guy was coming for me.
Imagine that dog lumbering in to rescue you? I’d love it, and would have turned that lowly St Bernard away, “Enough with whatever is hanging around your neck–I’m waiting for the Captain!”
I erect myself frigidly–very gentle, very slow. I need attention, and a bowl of that cereal set aside for later.
I was stuck like that for days; long summer days were spent looking out the window, over my shoulder, at all the normal children riding bicycles outside. I was beginning to fret that I’d never get to drive a car and would undoubtedly ruin every group photo for the rest of my life. But after logging many hours with the peptol bismol colored heating pad, I was thawed at last.
This afternoon, I am feeling a similar iciness, this time in my shoulder and neck. In my profession, I operate giant food processors, and am often mixing product by spinning the lever atop the mighty Hobart; much in the manner and enthusiasm as the fist-pumping Jersey Shore gang when out on the town.
And then you hear it. This snap-twinge two-step combo, and that moment when you just pause. Fuuuuck. Once home, freshly showered and tucked up on the couch, I pull out the heating pad, turned it on and iced my shoulder until the pad heated up. About fifteen minutes later, I pull the pad over my shoulder, and find not warmth, but general nothingness. And that really pisses me off.
Ben’s like, “Of course it’s unplugged!”
And I’m like, “But why didn’t you tell me when you saw me turn it on?”
He said something about fire hazards and energy conservation but I wasn’t really listening. The plug is behind the couch, a tight squeeze, and so I worm my way to the power point, bitching the whole way there and bitching the whole way back. Of course when I get angry, Ben can’t help but laugh. I’m bleating like a pygmy goat all tangled up in a fence; I’m more apt to hurt myself than anyone else. I’m grumbling away, settling back into my seat, and I pull the heating pad over my shoulder, and hug it close to myself.
“Don’t scrunch the heating pad”.
“Don’t bend it–it’s a fire hazard”.
How can you not bend a heating pad? Doesn’t it work for you and not you for it?
As I write this, I have the baby blue electric heat strip across my chest, leaning back with my arms out in sort of Frankenstein sort of way. (It looks more comfortable than it sounds). Most importantly, I’m being careful not to fold haphazardly it so as to not invite the scorn of my Boy Scout husband, who does not bend the heating pad or the rules.