It was February 7, 2011… coming off a Month End and heading to work pondering the drive ahead of me. Not so much the semi-short drive to work… but rather the longer 90 minute drive to Buffalo (for business meetings). I volunteered to drive myself and 3 others for meetings and expected to be back later in the day. I rolled into the parking lot feeling pretty good about the day ahead. It was all sunshine and roses.
PowerPoint done the day before… check. Car filled with gas… check. Blackberry charged… check.
Weather not so great so I better be proactive and fill up the wiper fluid.
Nothing sucks more than driving on a highway with the mix of salt and grime spraying onto your windshield. Luckily, it being winter, I had a full container of wiper fluid in the car.
I grab it and I pop the hood. Will the guys mind if we listen to the all 80s channel on Sirius? Cutting Crew… Behind the music comes on at 9:30am.
I fill up the wiper fluid receptacle. Why is it always blue? Who made that decision?
I grab the car hood. They should have a button for closing the hood, they have buttons for everything else. Maybe I’ll invent one. Maybe they never invented one cause it’s hard to mess up closing the hood.
I slam it shut. Hmm… that was odd. DOH! I think I messed up closing the hood.
Something felt wrong… real wrong… the kind of wrong that will hurt more later…the kind of wrong that you know will take a while to go away. The same wrong feeling you get after eating suicide chicken wings on a dare… the feeling that you did something dumb, that it’s bad now… but also that it’s about to get much worse.
Since I was the sole driver, I decided to soldier on. The guys piled in and we got to Buffalo on time. Ninety minutes later we got out of the car and made our way to reception… and my lower back was pissed at me. So pissed that it decided to make walking difficult. So pissed that leaning to one side shot pain through my back and legs that threatened to force my needs to buckle. So pissed that it made me mess up the name of my host 3 times… even though I’ve known her for 4 years. Not cool Mr. Back!
We didn’t wait too long until our gracious host came down and escorted us up to our meeting room. I must have looked like I was 105 going up those stairs. Nothing against 105 year-olds. I just don’t picture them doing awesome with stairs.
Someone found some pain killers and anti-inflammatories and I popped them like Tic-Tacs. Sitting wasn’t good, standing was a challenge and lying down would have looked funny. During a break, I emailed a chiropractor that is a 6 minute walk from my place. The office was easy to Google and I knew I’d need to see him.
The meetings went well and we’re now off to dinner. Our host noticed the pain I was in and volunteered to escort us to a drug store where I could find something with a little more punch. If I could get my hands on some Robax Platinum, I would be the happiest person in the world… but I was to be denied… seems as if the FDA rules in the US are different than in Canada and Robax is not available without a prescription. Up until this moment every buying experience I’ve had in the US was one full of glee and wonderment… hours spent in Target, Wegman’s, Khol’s, Macy’s, all of them happy, wiped out at the RiteAid.
Dinner was nice but my back was having none of it. It was dark by the time we left and I was eager to get home. I still had to drop off the crew. Home was where Robax was. Home was where I could get horizontal. Home.
To be continued…