Catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I do a double take. My right eye is criss-crossed with disfiguring lines of dermatographia. I look like the survivor of an aggressive sloth attack, ten years post trauma. My scars, having healed, while still deep, are no longer angry and red. I guess that during my drugged morning nap, I'd snuggled with the neck beanbag a little too intimately. I poke at the lines. They're not going anywhere for awhile. Naturally, I had to take photos.
25 minutes later, after having enjoyed breakfast, I'm back in the bathroom and find myself snorting at the longevity of the lines upon my middle-aged face. While attempting to procure the first in a series of time-lapse photos showing the lack of elasticity in a peri-menopausal visage, I twist my head, and yowl as pain shoots through my left side.
I can't breathe! There must be a carving knife lodged in my side! Holy shit - I need to get to the hospital! Where's the phone? I need to call 9-1-1. I need to... Okay calm down Heather. Take a breath... MOTHER FUCKER!!
I KNOW this feeling. I have displaced a rib. Apparently, women of my age mustn't snap self-mocking selfies while turning their heads at the same time. What's next? I'll pop a rib by blinking too hard? I'd laugh at the ridiculousness of the circumstances if it didn't hurt so fucking much. I haven't popped a rib in a couple of years, that must be why the pain is so brutal.
"Or," says my chiropractor, upon examining me two hours later, "it could be because you've popped three ribs, not one."
From turning my head.
I'm drugged enough now that I can laugh.