Slept hard and woken up scarred.

With the maximum recommend dosage of Tylenol and Naproxen in my system to combat the migraine spike in my right eye, I collapse back into bed.  I adjust the cold beanbag on the back of my neck and another over my eyes.  Two and a half hours later, I awake pain-free and ready to head into work.

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.

  

Who let the lava queen in?

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh."

"Hmmm?  What?"  yawns David, before falling back asleep almost instantaneously.

It's 1:30 a.m. Moments ago I was curled next to David, really loving being the Big Spoon.  Now I am temperature of the sun.

The Lava Queen by Wasudo (Deviant Art)

Covers off.   I'm sweating from every pore in my torso...  neck...  scalp.  Ugh.  The Lava Queen is back and she's doing a floor show of excretion.  I stagger to the bathroom, drink two glasses of water, then lean against the sink, panting from my near self-inflicted drowning.

It's my own damned fault.  I had two drinks this evening.  One at dinner and then a Rusty Nail as a nightcap.  Too much alcohol.  Plus I'm on these stupid pills to regulate my period which I think are just fucking my hormones over.  Double whammy there.   Stupid.  It's been a few months since I've been hit this hard.   I thought it was done.  More the fool me.

No problem.  I'll just snuggle back into bed now that I'm cooler and... the sheets are all damp.  I look over at David.  Can I possibly re-sheet the bed with him still in it?  Unlikely. Fuck it.  If I have another flash, the cold sheets will feel fantastic.  See that?  Silver fucking lining.

The only problem is when I start to make the bed in the morning.  I probably shouldn't make the bed with wet sheets.  I could leave the covers off all day and then make the bed right before I go to sleep, or...

"Why are you taking the blow dryer into your bedroom?" asks Rissa.

"MacGyvering."