There are usually two reactions to such a strange ailment.
The first is a grimace of pained sympathy. An offer of ibuprofen or a massage or a heating pad. Advanced sympathy also offers wine, a soft pillow, and the TV remote.
The other reaction is a sly grin on a blushing face, a knowing sidelong glance, a giggle, and a bawdy comment about leather ties and overnight activities with your husband.
As much as I would love to have an amusing story about how I got to this point, if for no other reason than to watch people turn pink and wonder about quiet ole’ me, I’m unfortunately far too boring for such antics; that’s a post for another day, or more likely, a private journal entry. I’ve always said with a self-depreciating laugh that I’m a cube; square on six sides. The real story behind my sprained neck tells that out.
Yes, somehow I managed to sprain my neck sleeping. Not “sleeping,” but real, honest to god eyes closed and drooling on my pillow sleeping. It’s a rare talent, I tell you. That I awoke on my birthday with a sprained neck from sleeping is just further proof that middle age has arrived with a vengeance. Not quite fair.
So it’s ibuprofen and chiropractic and purple RockTape (made from unicorn hides, I swear; this stuff is magic) and moving very slowly and carefully. I can’t slather up with Deep Relief, because the RockTape will slide off. Flute playing is all kinds of fun, as that requires not only turning my head, but also jaw/arm/shoulder/rib/finger activity as well. I am FrankenJen, moving my entire body to have a conversation and bursting into unexpected rage for no apparent reason (except for, you know, pain).
I think this would be easier to manage…and surely be a hell of a lot funnier…if there was an entertaining reason behind it all. But I slept weird just doesn’t qualify, and I’m old and falling apart is even worse. So perhaps I will price out leather ties and such after all. You never know when you might need to come up with a clever cover story.