Before the spring-a-thon, I met with a physical therapist this morning for my neck. It refuses to budge from its fetal position. I talked all tough when I saw my dear friend Jen yesterday about how I am willing to do whatever I need to do to get all better and essentially sock this injury/arthritis in the gut, earning me the title, Brave Little Toaster.
I guess I figured I'd march in like Rocky and battle it out, like I did when I hurt my knee. But instead, the therapist stretched and massaged my sore neck until it felt like butter. On toast. Or a BLT.
(Now I've lost all of you, with my mixed pop culture references.)
I'd say something clever right about NOW, if I could think of a fitting way to end such a post, but I've got nothing.
(And so concludes Mama Milton's 'I don't have a picture for Wordless Wednesday' Wild Ride. The repairman shot me a strange look when I tried to rope him into posing for my post.)