You know, I'm really getting tired of feeling bad.
I woke up at about 3 am with the sensation that a rabid wolverine was making a macrame wall hanging with my gut. I get episodes like this a couple of times a year; don't know why. Anyway, I was literally jacknifed in bed, writhing in pain and very nearly pushing my poor little geriatric dog onto the floor for hours on end, with fatigue from a sleepless night just adding to the misery, until I finally stumbled into the kitchen, nuked my mother's buckwheat-filled hot/cold shoulder throw that she uses for her neck problems, and then alternately lay on it and draped it over my tummy. This, unlike four Advil and Pepto ingested through the night, actually helped, and I finally fell asleep; I didn't get out of bed until about noon, and since then I've been engaging in low-impact pursuits like putting away the Christmas decorations.
But now I have a headache. And -- I don't want to get into the gory details, even though I've already shamelessly taken the blogosphere on a forced march through my underwear drawer, but for the past month I have been suffering from what the old patent medicine bottles called "ladies' complaints." Suffice it to say that my particular lady's complaint, if it continues for 19 more years, could earn me my own Bible story. (A coworker of mine noted that, if the universe's design really were intelligent, we'd have zippered uteri that we could just unzip and fold away if we weren't using them.)
I just feel so old today. My body is letting me down, all over the place. I don't much care for this medical thrill ride through middle age.