Florist, Week 8

Due to my back condition getting worse (we are enemies right now, spine), I managed to work a half day on Monday before limping home like a scurvied pirate with two wooden legs. I promptly phoned my doctor to obtain pharmaceutical assistance, and with my newly acquired painkillers in hand, I spent the rest of Monday, yesterday and all of today on our fur-covered floor, "resting." Resting = bored out of my brain. On the plus side, I feel Houston and I have reached a new comfort level in our relationship, what with us napping face to face on the expensive Turkish rug that she considers her personal bed and shedding station.

Having her rear end at the same height as my nose, however, has not been a bonus. Cheddar-bacon Beggin' Strips are no more. Just. sick.

To add insult to back injury, I put on a pair of jeans that fit me superbly last week . . . only to discover the suckers barely made it over my love handles! Never mind that it takes me 20 minutes to put on a dang sock - I haven't even touched a shin since late November - putting on the shrinking pants took nearly half the morning! I was exhausted.

Oh, and the loud ripping sound that followed? Yet to be identified. As far as I'm concerned, if I can't see the tear, it doesn't exist and the pants still fit.

Just plain offensive.

Clearly my metabolism, due to this extreme inactivity, has chosen to hibernate like a bear in winter. Another super surprise? The doctor's office informed me I have gained 9 pounds since September. Excuse me - 9 pounds? 9 pounds! NINE POUNDS?!

That was like taking a bullet straight to the face.

So my new job is lying on the ground, attempting to breathe while not gaining weight from high-caloric oxygen, stewing furiously over rude and unwanted pounds, and hoping that I will not get fired from my part-time florist job due to inability to sit or stand for any length of time, otherwise known as: being able to WORK.

I have really done it to myself this time.

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