On Second Thought

In the past two weeks I have gone from being a semi-vibrant, but aging, woman to a limping advertisement for AARP.

It seems I have sciatica, which is a fancy way of saying, “Girl, what did you do to your poor pelvis?”

From your mouth to God’s ears. I honestly have no idea how I got it, how I’m going to get rid of it or which curse words best describe the pain.

The better question is what my pelvis is doing to me. So I’ll tell you:

Two weeks and countless epsom salt baths, Advil, Gabapentin and muscle relaxers later, I still walk like Quasimodo, but only sometimes, and almost always in view of the public.

I was leaving a restaurant with friends last week, and as luck would have it, I had a muscle spasm in my back followed by my sciatic nerve initiating its “hit the ground” command. I grabbed the friend next to me who also happens to be the one who can’t not laugh when somebody falls down, or even almost falls down.

It was a real riot, and I think I heard someone theatrically whisper, “woman down in section three” as my friend laughed and laughed even though my fingers were digging into her arm as my hip and thigh betrayed us all. She did, however, save me from actually hitting the floor.

It just looked like a deep curtsy.

Another time, I was with a friend and we were walking into a convenience store when, although I’m not Catholic, I did spontaneously genuflect at the rail by the door which took the pressure off that hip long enough for me to compose myself.

I did the sign of the cross, said “Amen, Allelujah” and limped as fast as I could to the restroom.

For the record, this is my first rodeo and I am genuinely humbled by the horrific timing of the muscle spasms and volts of electricity surging through my thigh.

I was so humbled, I treated myself to the most masochistic massage I have ever received and called it self-love. The brutality, combined with a gracious follow-up session in stretching exercises, seem to have helped.

Bring on Easter, not only for the self-reflection, but also the comfort food. I hear there’s going to be a caramel glazed spiral ham at my Mom’s, and I have it on good authority that it cures everything.