So at 4 p.m. on Christmas day, I am struck by the fact that my back is simply not getting any better. Nothing major, mind you, just moving too much snow too quickly and now, five days later, what was a small ache has become a real pain that makes getting out of bed and rising from a chair just a little too difficult. At this rate, by morning I will not be able to move.
It's getting dark, it's raining. I have already taken too many Tylenols. I hate taking pills--my addict self recoils at ingesting anything that may cause my body to have strange reactions--and whatever is available over-the-counter won't do the job. I had a few Percocets I was saving from oral surgery but an addict acquaintance stole them a while back.
The only recourse is a heating pad, but I lent mine to a friend.
At 4:40 I head for Giant, which will close at five so the Islamic, animist and Buhddist workers can enjoy a Christian holiday. At 4:50 a Giant lady dressed as an elf tells me that yes, they have heating pads, and no, I can't have one since the pads are in the pharmacy and the pharmacy is closed. At CVS just down the road they have heating pads too but they're sold out on account of all the people who hurt their backs while shoveling snow. The tiny Vietnamese woman behind the register commiserates--her husband had terrible back pains and swore by Tiger Balm, a sort of Asian super-lethal Ben Gay I used to rub all over myself after having the living cr*p kicked out of me when I did martial arts many years ago. It does work, kind of, and makes you smell like eucalyptus and garlic.
Rite Aid is closed, the bastards. The CVS in McLean claims not to have heating pads but now I am getting suspicious that the Sikh cashier with the Singh nametag is actually hoarding them. He has a wary, haughty look when I question him but remains adamant. The last pad--the deluxe $50 model with four heating settings and the automatic shut off for safety--was sold not an hour ago. He sold it himself to an elderly man with a cane who looked as if he really needed it. The implication is obvious; I am not worthy of the Singh heating pad.
Getting in and out of the car is becoming actively painful. The rain is getting colder. A 23-foot long Cadillac from the 70s almost sideswipes me and fishtails down the street. I give up. I am going home. I will stay in my steaming shower until the hot water runs out. Then I will wrap myself in something flammable and... No, I won't do that. I will stay in bed, eat chicken soup (the chunky kind), and wait for my spine to fuse.
On the way home I pass a 7-11 and decide a Christmas spicy quarter-pounder might make me feel better. I stride painfully down the overpriced medicine aisle. I spy a blue package on the bottom rack. I bend, I hurt, I pick up the heating pad, it costs $19.95 and has five settings and an automatic shut-off so I do not immolate myself as I sleep.
I buy the pad. I pay cash. The spicy quarter-pounder is warm in my hand, an omen of things to come. The clerk wishes me a most happy Christmas, and I return the favor. Blessed art thou, 7-11.
I go home, plug the pad in, lie down and begin writing this blog on my micro laptop. All is well with the world. I have left the spicy quarter-pounder in the car, where it is now congealing. This is probably meaningful. Merry Christmas, one and all.
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