When I was a little kid, my daddy took me with him to a little country store down the road. We were sitting on the porch drinking a Coke when a neighborhood resident drove up, got out of his truck, and limped toward the store. Daddy spoke to him and asked him how he was doing, and he replied, "Man, I'm so stove up I cain't hardly move." I had never heard the term "stove up," but I could tell from the way he was walking that he meant he was stiff.
Well, I am "stove up" today.
It must have been Saturday morning, while I was working in the sewing room, that The Husband decided to spray furniture polish on some closet doors in our office. Evidently, some of the spray drifted onto the laminate floor, for when I went buzzing through the room in my home-made felt-soled house shoes, I came very close to doing the splits. The floor was as slippery as a sheet of ice. Not knowing about the furniture polish, I attributed the near-fall to the felt-soled shoes and the speed at which I was moving.
Fast forward an hour. On the second trip through the office, I busted my ass in front of the closet doors.
That time, I raised a ruckus, at which time The Husband admitted that he had sprayed furniture polish on the closet doors. He ran to get a towel and started smearing it around on the floor with his foot. Knowing that this would only enlarge the slippery area, I went to get the mop and a bucket of soapy water.
By Saturday night, my back muscles were hurting. By yesterday morning, my thigh muscles were sore. I spent a fairly miserable night, moaning in pain every time I tried to roll over. Today, I'm "so stove up I cain't hardly move." I know that the best remedy would be to get up and move, but I would like nothing more than to spend the day laid-up with a book.
Alas, it was not meant to be. Work calls. It's probably for the best.
No comments:
Post a Comment