Sometimes I really hate living inside of me.
In addition to walking four miles each day, I’ve been working out at the gym.
I pulled my back out on Saturday, innocently bending down to pick something off my kitchen floor.
That’s punishment enough. But where my obsessive mind goes with these things is much, much worse.
“Funk, I pulled my back out!”
“I’m sorry darling.”
“No Funk, it’s really bad this time. What if I slipped a disc?”
“Gloria, you’re fine. That’s just your mind getting the best of you.”
“How do you know Funk? For all you know I can end up in the hospital on traction.”
Three days later, after two acupuncture sessions and one chiropractic appointment, yup, it’s just a pulled muscle.
C’mon Facebook friends, don’t leave me exposed. Please list some of your issues!
The photo: My father, the sailor, WWII. One of the places where I inherited those Italian neurotic genes from.