I am wearing a turtleneck today (a big honking mother-of-all turtlenecks, too), but not for fashion.
No, I’m hiding something.
And unlike the days of late high school/early college, this high-necked sweater isn’t covering any signs of passionate, youthful indiscretion.
Not even close.
It’s hiding a heating pad.
I’m also wearing one on my lower back.
My neck is prone to muscle spasms, and last night, it completely locked up on me. As I moved about the house, careful to avoid actually twisting my neck, instead using the Frankenstein’s monster-style full-body swivel. At a certain point, my back just said “ah, to hell with it” and locked up on its own, hence today’s dual assault of magnetic heating apparatus(es?, i? whatever — do your own damn plural. And get off my lawn).
I’m only 33. I shouldn’t feel like this. I’m not that old. I’m younger than, say, Dikembe Motumbo and Mickey Rooney. I did, however, realize that I’m older than the combined ages of four-fifths of the boys in my church’s youth group class I co-lead with one Daniel-Taylor Wells.
This is not good.
That’s the same age of Jesus at the time of his death, so that doesn’t bode well, particularly when I occassionally have a god complex. I’m yet to have piercing pain in my side, hands or feet, though.
I’m probably old enough to realize that might be borderline blasphemous. I’ll determine that later.
In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me, I have stories to watch.