Sometimes known as Lazy Sod Syndrome. Or to others, Still On Vacation Virus.
Underexertion may manifest while supping coffee still abed doing a spot of writing. No pain was felt at this time but it’s difficult to say whether the addition of another pillow may have prevented neck strain. I may never know.
Signs of underexertion began when I toasted a couple of cinamonn and raisin bagels, lathered them with jam and strategically placed some homegrown strawberries and raspberries.
It may have been the cutting of those that did it. I think I used a stainless steel bread knife which was quite heavy and unnecessarily wieldy for the task. But it was handy and I didn’t want to exert myself by reaching to the knife rack. Why sully another tool when some bugger’s left one out on the work surface having not exerted themselves to return it to its home?
I felt a twinge then.
By the time I had carried my steaming mug, plate of goodies, kindle and cigs out to the garden to join my husband – I like to be armed with all accoutrements for comfort – the pain had started at the base of my skull. Feckin’ ouch!
Being a trooper of stalwart proportions I ignored it best I could, only allowing a slight ‘whatthefuck’ to escape my, as yet, unjammed lips.
Hubs was up a tree. Yes, it is chain saw time. Lobbing the tops of thirty foot conifers is pretty much an annual task – those craiters can sprout at some.
After dropping some fresh fruit on the patio from my overabundant bagels and cursing the loss of a particularly juicy strawberry the pain really began to hit.
Down the back of my neck and into my shoulders in an absurdly sweetly excruciating stretch or tension of muscle. Fuuuuck!
Although my husband doesn’t always read my poetry, sometimes does and doesn’t get it, preferring instead others’ poems that I read to him occasionally (bastard!), he reads my pain very well, having attended all seven births of our offspring.
Not that this pain compared. But it was bloody sore all the same.
I don’t get a lot of pain. Well, other than the, ‘Do my legs really want to do another elevation?’, ‘Who needs stomach crunches, anyway, flab is fine?’ and ‘Why does this chair feel so much more difficult to get out of today than yesterday?’ type.
Those pains I can rationalise away.
Other pains I just feed and put to bed after entertaining for the day. I had them, got to do something with them.
My husband is not a swearing man. I do that for him. Along with a number of other things that have got nothing to do with this post. S’ok, usually involves cooking.
At my rather loud, ‘Fuuuck!’, that I think even wee Mrs. O’D possibly heard from behind her blinds, he ministered to my needs with some sort of deep heat spray he uses for buggered muscles when overexerting himself at running. I never need it. Running’s what water does.
It didn’t work. Although my eyes ran a bit.
Two ibuprofen, two paracetamol, a rather strange posturing on my bed, face down with my bum almost up in the air, helped. Kids thought it was hilarious. I don’t know where they get their black humour from.
I’m all better now. But I felt obliged to pass on this handy tip on the dangers of underexerting yourself. Better really just to get up and tackle what’s ahead face on. Not with your bum up in the air obviously. That’s just overdoing it.
The above is obviously not a picture of me. Miley Cyrus and I have completely different hair styles. You google images for ‘bum up in the air’. Maybe not. Quite cheeky some of them.