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Dear Dani, 

Love,

Everyone

For the past week and a half, this is what my conversations have looked like:

Me:  "Owwww.... I fell downnnn... owwwww..."

Me:  "Owwwww... I can barely walk because my knee and hip and foot are killing me... owwwwww..."

Me:  "Owwww... look at this bruise... what if it breaks loose and a blood clot shoots to my brain, killing me instantly while I'm sitting on the toilet?  Owwww..."

Me:  "Owwww... my sciatica is flaring up again... owwww...."

Me:  "I'm sooo tiiiired... I can't sleep because I'm in sooo much painnnn... owwwww..."

OWWWwwwwww...

Last night, shortly after going to bed, my Restless Leg Syndrome kicked off (no pun intended... I swear) with a bang.   I was flailing about and kicking my feet and finally launched myself out of bed, feet paddling so hard that I hit the floor running and practically took off in a dead sprint, with the only thing slowing me down being my raging sciatica and banged up entire right side.  (Otherwise I'm pretty sure there would have been a Dani-shaped hole in the side of the wall, and a Dani-shaped blotch in the snow below, where I would have been found in the morning, lying head-first in a snow bank, little feet still spastically kicking the air.)  

Like this, only fatter.  And less duck-shaped.

Dan:  *watching my performance from the bed*  "Are you okay?"

Me:  *whiiiiiiningggggggg*  "NOOOooooo!!  My Restless Leg Syndrome just started up.  I hate this feeling!"

Dan:  *trying really hard to look like he cared*  "That sucks.  Anything I can do?"

(He asked that question as he was lying back down and pulling up the covers, preparing to commence snoring and drooling at any given moment.)

Me:  *long suffering*  "No... I just need to walk around for a few minutes.  Go to sleep.  One of us should, I guess."

Oh, boo to the freaking hoo, right?  I know... I wanted to slap me, too.  

But that didn't stop me from crying myself to sleep like a whiny little bitch.  GOD I felt so sorry for myself.  

I did, however, cry softly, so as not to disrupt Dan as he broke the sound barrier with his record-breaking snoring.

Loreena Bobbit came up with a solution for that.

Long story short, I lived through the night.  Barely.  (So did Dan.  Also barely.)

I got up this morning with new resolve to soldier on through life without letting the aches and pains of impending death and damnation ruin my mood.  

That's when I noticed that my lower back was killinggggg meeeee. 

Dan:  *watching me gimp around the apartment, all hunched over like Quasimodo*  "What's wrong with you?"

Me:  *wanting to spare him the news of my new and improved agony*  "Nothing ... I'm okay..."

Dan:  *staring at me with a look of "now what?" washing over his cartoon-like face*  

Me:  *whimpering*

Dan:  "Are you okay?"

Me:  *bravely... hey, I raised Marines, bitches*  "Yeah... my back just hurts this morning."

Dan:  

Me:

(I mean, really... what is there to say?)

Today I am starting  a liquid diet in solidarity with my niece, Sherri, who recently underwent her 10th jaw surgery.  (You can follow her blog and read about her journey here.)   Since she is 3000 miles away from me in California, there's not a whole lot I can do for her, so I'm going to suffer along with her.  (Also?  Reading her blog makes me feel like a giant weeny for whining so much about my random aches and pains.  My girl has gone through hell with a smile on her face and is one of the strongest, most courageous people I know.  Also, in solidarity, I'm going to do her whining for her.  You're welcome, peanut.)

Which means I can no longer whine in the Olympics.

So it's 12:45 p.m. and I've been liquid-dieting since 7:30 this morning.

I'm ready to dump ketchup on my arm and eat it.

Maisy is also looking plump and delicious.

But I'm not going to whine.  I'm not.  I'm not.

Dammit, I'm not.

Okay fine, I'll stop.  Party pooper.