I have been in the process of organizing old digital photos to transfer to an image storage site (Flickr), and I have had fun looking through the past few years. A lot of smiles have come from Sophie's first year with us, when she was all round eyes and fluffy tail (she grew into them, let me tell you).

It was August 2006 when a surgeon told me that I was probably unable to have children. I latched onto "probably" quite desperately as I recovered from that series of surgeries. Probably meant there was still a chance.

That next year was dedicated to figuring out the nuances of everything that was wrong with me. Of course, being that I have a very rare genetic disorder sparks a lot of interest from various specialists. I bet that I didn't really need half of those appointments, and I did start to feel like I was a bit of a freak show for the medical community's entertainment.

It was through the course of those appointments that probably turned into a definite no…any slight chance that may have burned was promptly extinguished. Then came Sophie…and so begins the life of the most spoiled cat on the face of the planet.

When Nick shot this video Friday night, I admit that me and my cousin were embarrassed by the sound of our raucous laughter. Yet, I find myself sharing it here.

To set the stage for you, Michelle came over Friday night to help rice potatoes for a planned lefse day (which didn't work out). Nick asked hopefully if she would be staying for awhile…because then he could coerce the two of us into a board game…namely, Beatles Trivial Pursuit. We actually have a few versions of Trivial Pursuit between the two of us, but I'm afraid that we do not play board games all that often—which is a shame because some of the funniest conversations of my recollection have happened during this sort of play.

When Nick and I started seeing each other, we had a no-TV night every week. During this one sacred night, we participated in technology-free activities such as Yahtzee, Scrabble, and various trivia games. This, as with so many other good habits we used to have, fell by the wayside when I re-enrolled in my B.S. program (pun intended). I could not afford a technology free night when there was always something due—either for work or one of my classes.

Now that the novelty of sitting on the couch with absolutely nothing to do has worn thin, I am trying to make the effort to practice my social skills once more.

But the Beatles, ah. The Beatles. I have spent my life loving The Beatles. I dragged Michelle into the obsession somewhere in the early 90s, and she's been infected ever since. Being that Nick is painfully unappreciative and knowledgeable of THE GREATEST BAND OF ALL TIME, his request to play that particular board game seemed all the more desperate. So, we played.

And how we laughed…and laughed, and laughed—mainly at Nick's answers because he seriously got the most difficult questions of the night. I wouldn't have known all that information on Brian Epstein either, but he made best of it and entertained us for hours. We were so amused that we laughed easily and boisterously at just about anything. And with that, I introduce the fuzziest player in our game:

I haven't always been one to make decisions. In fact, I would say that I've spent most of my life being completely and utterly wishy-washy. It was never about having opinions…it was about the abject fear that I would make the wrong choice.

My behavior changed sometime during my late 20s. I couldn't tell you the catalyst for sure, as the second half of my last decade was like a remodeling project that just wouldn't end. I'm hardly even the same person!

But irony strikes again: I married a waffler.

I am suddenly in the position where I want to violently shake him until a decision falls out. How quickly I forget that I used to be THAT person. Instead, total frustration blinds me.I am not talking about big decisions, obviously. You should spend considerable time deciding on a new life direction, but you can probably flip a coin between Ruffles and Lays without the world ending.

Time is weighted differently in my new perception of life. I would much rather live with a decision that could have been better than waste months trying to figure out what to do. I guarantee that your guest doesn't spend time thinking of the Lays while he stuffs his face with the Ruffles, but those long moments of uncertainty in the snack food aisle are lost to you forever.

Nick has been looking for a new pair of winter boots for months. He has found several that fit the bill, but he has yet to buy any of them. It's like those brides who try on too many dresses and suddenly none of them look right: he's in winter boot overload. He has been asking my opinion on this pair or that as he conducts his extensive online research. I gave him decent feedback in the beginning.

I say decent because I really don't have any sort of opinion on what he puts on his feet. Yet, I gave him my thoughts as if I would be given the credit or blame for his foot wardrobe. Heading into month two of the research, I started giving him a simple thumbs up or thumbs down depending on which one I gave him for the last product he showed me. I threatened him a few hours ago that one day I would just come home with a pair of boots and HE WILL WEAR THEM—even if they're the wrong size…that's just the price you have to pay for not making your own decisions.

This all boiled to the surface today over a series of text messages with my cousin. She sends me a picture of a bare spot in her apartment and asks what she should buy to make that space feel complete. I tell her a bench with storage would be aesthetically pleasing and practical: two birds, one stone. She loves the idea of a bench. Where can she buy an inexpensive bench with storage she wants to know. I confer with Google, and we find the perfect seller.

Upon sending a picture from bench-people's website, she falls head over heels in love with one of their products. I mean, it's almost indecent how much passion she has for this bench. She thinks it's perfect, just perfect. Even better: it's within budget! She confesses that she wasn't thinking of a bench, but now she sees only THAT bench in her empty space. Michelle and the bench sitting in a tree…K-I-S-S-I-N-G…

"Good deal. Are you shopping today? Do you want company?" I question in reply. She does want company, but…only…is this the right choice? She reneges, backtracks. Maybe there is something better out there…maybe…maybe…maybe…

"Oh no," I thought sadly. Et tu Brute?

Reading my silence correctly, she writes, "I need help making decisions. You're THE DECIDER! We're so lucky to have you!" She's just lucky that in my Laura 2.0 revamp I haven't shaken my weakness to flattery. Watch out for 3.0 though—you're not going to want to mess with her.

Meanwhile, I may decide to use "The Decider" as my wrestling stage name: "Meek and Moody" isn't putting the fear in anyone's eyes.

When I was a child, I was the artistic sort. I wrote my first short story—with illustrations, mind you—before I made it to second grade. At the time, because everyone should be making big life choices before second grade (naturally), I was torn as to whether I was more of a writer or more of an illustrator. In the end, writing stayed with me a bit longer…most likely because my writing became more sophisticated with age, but my sketching never did!

I still take to drawing occasionally. Well actually, I take to drawing more than just occasionally if you count all of the doodles I scribble on scrap paper while in phone conferences. Roll your eyes all you want…everyone is always surprised at all the information I retain without taking notes in those meetings! (It works!) The little doodle over to the right was Sophie-inspired, but with an extra-fluffy, excited-looking tail because that's how I like 'em.

I'm always a little surprised what I end up doodling when I dedicate my logic elsewhere.

Anyway, I always had fanciful stories in my head as a child. I wanted so badly to tell my mom all about the fantasies living in my mind, but I often felt frustrated because I didn't have the words to paint the stories well enough. I wanted everyone to see the faerie prince enchant all those flowers at dawn so that they would open and sing for the butterflies—but since I didn't have the words, I tried to recreate the image. I filled entire sketchbooks with my imagination.

I wonder, at what age do we stop seeing the unseen? If I still see, I've stopped acknowledging. The ability to run alongside your imagination is a gift that we have for such a short time, and I wish I still had those sketchbooks. I think they would be refreshing in contrast to my realistic, easily-described, all-business world. Hopefully I'll "wake up" from a phone conference one day and find that the faerie prince still lives in me after all.

It's always a little stressful having a Christmas tree (albeit fake) AND a cat. For the most part, I don't decorate the last 12 inches or so of tree because it's just safer that way. I do hang the two ornaments that Sophie received as gifts (one from Nick's mom and one from my aunt) low for her to enjoy.

We walked in this afternoon after spending the weekend away. We were fully expecting at least something out of place, but everything was just as we left it several days before. We praised her for not being destructive—we gave her bonus treats and everything!

Once we sat down in the living room, however, she realized she had an audience. It's so much more fun being naughty if someone knows about it, of course:

We did not decorate for Christmas last year because we left for Florida on December 26th. We did not want to return in mid-January to a house full of Christmas tchotchkes that needed to be cleaned up. So, we were the grumpy couple who went home to a sterile house where we sat in the dark quiet of cheerlessness.

Anyway, that's what I remember the most about last Christmas. I think Dickens summed it up quite well (if I've got the line right): "Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it." I'll tell ya—cheap and a whole lot easier on the effort scale, too. I was headed that way again this year, remembering the effort I didn't have to expend. I can be a bit miserly with my effort you know; I don't want to throw it away just anywhere. Sounds like I need a good kick from a few ghosts, eh?

Well, I really didn't want it to come to that (the hauntings), so I made a point to put up the tree today. Nick had a bad case of DOMS that kept him couch-bound most of the day, but his comments on how I was doing everything (and how it could be done better) were invaluable. Sophie helped me, though. She was very excited to see the tree since she was denied last year.

And at some point during the process, I lost the sarcasm and started having a lot of fun. I became so disgustingly cheerful that I stopped scolding Sophie for taking swipes at my ankles every time I passed while stringing the beads. Go ahead, trip me! Attack my toes! Gnaw the branches! AND MERRRRRRRY CHRISTMAS!

She's hardly left her place on the tree skirt since she and I finished wrestling while I tried to straighten the darn thing. I think she likes the heat from the lights. In any case, she's a cute little present to have sitting under our Christmas tree!

We have a room that is largely unused.

Well, I shouldn't say unused: it simply has no respectable purpose. It's the catch-all of the condo, kind of like that one drawer in the kitchen that attracts pens, paperclips, safety pins, pennies, and whatever else we happen to find lying around. We call the room an office, but the desk only takes up a teeny bit of the space. We used to have a futon in there (so it could have been used as a guest room, I suppose), but Nick sold that to my cousin a few months ago when she moved into her own apartment.

So, what has been sitting in the room? Baskets of clean, folded laundry belonging to yours truly. You know me and closets. I must defend, however, that I have not had a dresser since I moved in with Nick. I grew up with a big closet and two dressers, so it was a bit of an event figuring out how to store all my stuff with only a closet to work with (albeit a really big one).

I do not think my volume of clothing is absurd for no one has ever questioned my storage needs—heck, when I moved into my aunts' home, my dad came out and built additional areas to hang my clothes without any reaction (though, he may have just been dulled to clothing volume because of my mom's collection).

Nick, on the other hand, seems to think I have a lot of clothes. I find this laughable because his closet is all but bursting at the seams; he has four or five long containers that slide beneath the bed; AND he has a five-drawer dresser. All storage areas are full. (Of course, he doesn't switch out winter and summer clothes like I do, but still.)

Anyway, my storage system in this dresser-less existence was an impressive combination of baskets and stacked containers, but it required constant vigilance.

All that changed when I realized that I could fit a dresser in the room with the futon gone. That's right: after nearly six years, I have a dresser! It's wonderful! I spent a day reorganizing my clothing and other miscellaneous bits then decided that I might as well claim the whole room as sort of a closet-entryway…second-closet…outer-closet. By that evening, I was calling it my closet proper, and Nick was all, "Wah!?"



And behind the door:



I have found myself wandering into this room more, lighting candles and buying Wallflowers. It's absolutely sinful. I think Nick is in a state of bemusement. I did let him retain a tiny corner of real estate to keep his computer desk…see? I can share.

Sophie, like many cats, has very expressive eyes. I can tell when she's feeling happy, sleepy, bored, or affectionate just by looking at her. I can also tell when she's disappointed.

Sophie, I'm sorry. I can't play now because I have to...(get dressed/go to work/paint my toenails).

She gives me those Puss in Boots eyes, and I feel terrible (but continue to get dressed/go to work/paint my toenails anyway). When I let her down, Sophie turns to a more reliable companion, one who always drops everything just to play with her:

The blanket's back.



I love fall colors, but I don't keep this blanket out year-round. When I look outside and see the leaves so vibrantly green with life, I don't want to be reminded that their vigor will be short-lived. I hide the blanket as soon as the ground thaws. Sophie understands how it is, but that doesn't make it any easier—you see, she loves that blanket.


If I didn't know better, I would say that Sophie has become clingy, always sitting with me on the couch…but I know better. I know that I've got nothing to do with it. I know that I've just gotten in the middle of an attraction bigger and stronger than anything I could have imagined when I bought that plush throw.

Meanwhile, I harbor jealousy toward a blanket: she's loves you more than me…wwaaaaanh!

Tuesday was November 15th. Throughout the entire day, I had this nagging feeling that something about November 15th was significant. I have an amazing memory for dates which counterbalances my forgetfulness with refilling the cat's water bowl—so I was extremely irked that I couldn't figure out what happened on November 15th. I was getting ready for work the next morning when the light bulb lit.

I don't use a bathrobe regularly, but I have one hanging from a hook on my closet door. That morning, I decided that my need for coffee exceeded my need for propriety in the form of non-nakedness. I decided to grab my robe and head toward the coffeemaker. As I yanked down the robe, I got a glimpse of my gold honor cords that were disturbed from their resting place.

November 15, 2010 was my last official day of school. I can't believe it's been an entire year (but I really should, because I've been paying on that student bill for several months now). I pet one of the golden tassels and shook my head. Earning those cords once seemed so important…and there they hung, completely forgotten.

I looked behind me to the top of the desk where my degrees sat, collecting dust in their leather portfolios. I gave three years of my life to full-time studentship while also working full time…and for what? In that moment, I realized that the real token that I was awarded for my work was confidence.

My classes did not give me new-found skills—I had those skills before. What I didn't have was the guts to use them or the global understanding to use them to the best benefit. Completing my degree expanded my world and gave me breath.

I know that I want my MBA. I've looked into programs, and I've purchased materials to study for the GMAT. I completed my BS for my career—but when the time comes, I will complete my MBA for me. (As such, I certainly will not be enrolled full time!)

I look back and wonder how I survived with so little sleep, so little downtime, so little…everything. A friend told me that we get through what we have to get through simply because we have to. Nothing important is really impossible, you know. My outlook is still shiny and like new, unlike those expensive pieces of paper. I may not be smiling as big as I was a year ago (if I was, I'm sure my face would have cracked and fallen away by now), but I'm definitely smiling.

We carpooled today. Walking from my office building, the sun was cheerfully bright. I slid into the passenger seat.

I tend to encase myself in things that sparkle. It's not a conscious decision: I veer into glitter quite naturally. I imagine myself as an old woman dripping with ostentatious costume jewelry. I'll look gaudy, sure…but I figure you can blame anything on senility.

While I am biding my time, since I am still in my 20s (well, for another 22 days), I do try to keep it tasteful. Nick, fully aware of my tendencies by this point, gave me the perfect ring when he asked me to marry him. It's made of Hearts on Fire diamonds, and I think it's the most beautiful piece of jewelry I've ever seen (I may be biased).

It's that very ring, with its immoderate sparkle, that usually causes problems in the car. When the sun catches the stones, a shower of blinding glare drops rains across a myriad of surfaces. Once it starts shining into Nick's retina, he feels obligated to tell me to make it stop.

So during the commute tonight, with that cheerfully bright sunshine, I thought I merely had to cover my left hand and did so without even being asked. But only, it didn't work. The glare drops continued to shower the interior of the car. The directionality of them was difficult to decipher. I looked down and noticed that my necklace had both a mirror ball and a largish prism. With my left hand, I grabbed the offensive necklace bits.

No good. My rings were exposed again. I sat on my left hand again and grabbed the necklace with my right hand. In frustration, we still saw that splash of potentially problematic glare.

Sigh.

My earrings were mirror balls. So, sitting on my left hand and covering my necklace with my right, I lifted my shoulders to hide my ears. I sat there like that for awhile, humored with the situation—especially when it occurred to me that an easier solution would have been to simply remove all jewelry from my person.

Pfft. Like that was going to happen.

If only she had learned to read a clock instead of listening to her tummy, Sophie would not have been so perplexed over the time change this morning. She could not fathom why her humans were still in bed when they should have been up and feeding her. She decided to sprawl on the food giver's head until she got the hint, but she was more dismissive than Sophie bargained.

When the slackers finally stumbled downstairs, they acted as though nothing was wrong. Sophie jumped to the perch where she receives her morning treats and bayed. The food giver finally snapped to, but Sophie did not want the tardiness to go unpunished. She gave the food giver a firm but harmless nip on the finger: the food giver needed to remember her place.

When the alarm clock in Sophie's belly sounded later that afternoon, she was disappointed to see that the food giver had not, in fact, learned her lesson. She kept telling Sophie some gibberish about a big hand and a little hand. Sophie decided that she must be a complete idiot—she had paws not hands, and they were all pretty much the same size.

Moron.

When the food giver finally DID HER JOB, Sophie was so worn out from giving her hell that she collapsed on the couch. Keeping those humans in line is a draining, thankless job.

Look, I don't try to hide it: I'm not a fan of Halloween. If I had children, I would probably have a lot of fun with it (if nothing else, I would make it fun for them), but Halloween and I have never jived. I think I was in second grade when I told my mother that I didn't want to trick-or-treat anymore. I wish I could pinpoint what it is that spurs this massive abhorrence…maybe I'm just a killjoy.

Fall is my favorite season. There's not much to dislike: hearing rustling leaves, seeing beautiful colors, feeling stillness, breathing crisp air, smelling spicy cinnamon, appreciating the coziness of home…such a delicious season. The only real mar is this silly Halloween thing. (Well, I am kind of charmed by really little kids in adorable costumes, but that's it.) I don't care for spiders, bats, ghouls, or vampires. Is this what people aspire to be!? Why can't everyone just be sweet little kitty cats!?

I've spent the day with a fake smile plastered on my face…now I'm off to sit in the dark until I'm sure the candy-beggars are all gone. I am a killjoy, aren't I? This is really my only scroogy holiday...aren't I allowed one?

Boo. For real.

Everybody has quirks. The trick to living with someone else without turning into a monster is either finding someone with the same quirks or who doesn't mind yours all that much (and vice versa, naturally).

Well, Nick's had it in his head for years now that he is going to be able to reform me of a few of mine. I think he's getting a little frustrated that I'm not the malleable ball of clay he thought I was. I can be just as stubborn as anybody, I just store the cement wall behind behind an acquiescing smile. (It's very effective in the business world.)

I have been spending a lot of time with my cousin Michelle over the past year. At first I was awed by how quickly we reconnected and how deeply we bonded. Now that I've had time to think about it, the connection is obvious. We were raised with the same role models, our heartstrings are played to the same tune, and our logic speeds along the same zip line. Even with ten years of little communication, we recognized a part of ourselves in each other.

Nick has grown close to Michelle over the last year when he really didn't know her very well before. He's been trying to get her to contradict me on something just to feel like he's got someone on his side (the side that believes my quirks to be stupid). Her uncoached answers to his questions always tickle me because they are almost verbatim what I have already answered.

• Months ago, on a date weekend out of town, he wanted to go see a stand-up comedian. This doesn't particularly interest me because I have zero desire (probably even negative desire) to be heckled. Michelle was going to hang out at the condo while we were away to Sophie-sit. He was worn out trying to convince me to go, so he tried to reenforce his reserves by asking Michelle her opinion. She replied with the same immediate distaste, asking, "Why the hell would you pay someone to pick on you!?"


• He likes the sensation of falling. He loves roller coasters and wants to go skydiving one day. I would prefer not to fall, ever. I don't need to mimic the feeling of plunging to my death to know that it wouldn't be a pleasant way to go. We were all in the car together when Nick asked Michelle if she would go to Great America with him. She choked on her Diet Coke and told him, "I'm patient. I'll wait until my number is up to feel like I'm going to die."


• As the season began to change, Nick went on an on about doing a corn maze this year. He goes on and on about this every year. If there's anything worse than falling, it's being lost and too small to see your way out. My anxiety begins to rise just thinking of that, so no thanks. Michelle and I have gotten unintentially lost in actual corn fields before, and we didn't find it entertaining. He asked Michelle if she'd go with him through a corn maze. She looked at him for a long while before asking, "What is WRONG with you!?"


• Now, there are several types of quirks other than rational fears, and this last one is more habit-based. Nick does most of the driving, and he tends to get distracted looking every which way but forward at traffic lights. For the longest time I tried to be helpful and let him know when the light had changed. After enough of his diva tantrums, I've learned to curb the urge. Let him irritate the cars behind him; I'm sure road rage is a myth anyway.
  
  Yesterday, the three of us were in the car together, stopped at a light. Nick was looking out to the left when the light changed. Michelle, completely innocent and unaware, piped up, "It's green." He whipped around to glare at her and she looked at me like, "What the hell!? He wasn't looking!" I tried to hide my smile. In talking later, she found it absurd that he wouldn't prefer a friend prodding him along instead of a honking car.
  
  Dude, I know.

I think Nick needs to seek an ally elsewhere.

Soph and I were a bit frazzled with the thunderstorm last night, and blogging was the last thing on our minds.

Nick loves thunderstorms…a lot of people seem to. I hate them, and I always have. I hate that they are loud (I don't like loud things as a rule). I hate that the hard rains make me feel like our fort is under attack. Most of all, I hate that there is electricity randomly missiling through the air (I don't think that "missiling" is actually a word, but it's the best I've got). Electricity should stay corralled in outlets, end of story.

Sophie feels the same…she told me so in her way. When the skies open up, she either hides in a dark corner or becomes excessively loving on my lap. She definitely takes my mind off the madness outside because I worry that she's going to work herself up into a full anxiety attack.

Lighting blares through the window and she looks sharply right to see what's going on. Then thunder crashes and sounds like it's coming from the window at her left. She throws herself dramatically into the blanket in a way that looks as though she would have also sighed "Fiddle-dee-dee!" Oh, our little southern belle.

Sophie's parents got iPhones on Friday. They have been totally absorbed in them, often sitting in silence, hip to hip, as they play. Sophie doesn't understand what is happening, why all eyes are not going to her as she struts into the room. How much cuter does she have to be!? GAH!

Armageddon must be near.

Concerned that these new devices are brainwashing her parents, Sophie has been diligently creating havoc this weekend in effort to break the trance. Nothing seems to work. No matter how many times she jumps on the counter, tries to steal food from between their fingers, or reaches up to knock objects from the coffee table, they remain consumed. She isn't sure what to do or who to call (not that she'd know how to work one of those newfangled phones anyway).

She believes they are a lost cause. She has nothing left to try. Dejected and beaten, she hunkers down to wait for the end of days.

I was sitting in my second meeting of the morning with my friend, K.

Meetings are always better when I have a friend there with me in the room (better, but probably a touch less productive). K is sweet and funny—lackadaisical but driven. I met her earlier this year, and we bonded instantly. She's just as girly as I am if not more, and I love getting goofy with people who uphold the same unimportant standards that I do.

K started an email to forward me a document. She remarked after several starts and stops that she was having trouble typing today. I looked at her hands with their fresh coat of shimmering burgundy polish. "Looks like it's time to cut the nails," I murmured drolly.

If looks. could. kill.

She eyed me up and down where I sat. All snotty, she spat, "Looks like it's time to wear something besides a dress."

I raised my eyebrow. "...never happen."

She raised her eyebrow. "I rest my case."

Indignant and both offended by stupid suggestions, we went back to talking about work.

Wow, and entire month without a single post—and not just any month, but the best month of all!

Here's what's been going on…

To be honest, running has felt off since that first surgery in 2006, but I have trudged along anyway, taking hits to my ego as I watch my average pace increase on my Nike+ profile. I had to develop a "no pain, no gain" attitude to conquer my weight loss challenge almost a decade ago, so I have the ability to ignore the queues from my body…you know, the ones that tell you when something isn't right and, "By the way, you should stop before you really screw up your back."

I participated in the 5K Waunafest Run at the end of July, and besides the frustration that running three miles suddenly seemed difficult, there was undeniable pain radiating up to my shoulders and down the backs of my legs, all from a seeming epicenter of my low back. "Walk it off, Laura, you're just not eating right or sleeping enough."

So, I walked it off and hit the running trail again two days later. Four miles in, I stopped at an intersection to allow a car to pass before stepping from the curb to continue along. That step from the curb is permanently imprinted on my mind as one of the worst feelings I have ever felt in my whole life. I had such an overwhelming sensation of pain that I couldn't specify the source, only that I couldn't run anymore and the urge to vomit was going to be difficult to suppress. Without telling Nick how bad I felt (I just wasn't eating right or sleeping enough, after all), I sent him along on the rest of the six mile run while I took a short cut to hobble the one mile home.

I could barely wash myself in the shower much less stand long enough to hit the important parts. I could not get out of bed on my own, and getting up from the couch summoned tears. I called my surgeon through the pain clinic who I had seen on July 20th for bilateral sacroiliac joint steroid injections. The nurse who spoke with me did not seem to comprehend that this was a different pain than before and told me to "stay the course" with my treatment. I called my primary care provider who advised me to call the pain clinic.

At a loss, I asked for the name of my aunts' chiropractor. I know that they can't prescribe drugs, but I needed someone to at least listen to me and tell me whether or not I was dying. My first appointment was both enlightening and frustrating. In all the hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on my body in the last three years, in all of the MRI and CT scans, nobody had ever looked at my back (just my butt and all my "extra parts"). Turns out that I have an excessive lumbar curve--excessive as in 35-40° too sharp. Again, another genetic malformation that I was born with, but has been made worse since that first surgery three years ago and the physical therapy that followed.

Needless to say, after I called my primary care physician (I was still in mad-pain, and chiropractors don't prescribe medications) to let them know what the chiropractor found, they wanted copies of the X-Rays and to see me right away. I left the clinic with narcotics, muscle relaxers, lidocaine patches, and the promise of a CT of my spine to follow. Going back to PT, my therapist admitted her frustration with my body.

The majority of patients undergoing PT treatment have experienced some sort of trauma—a car accident, broken leg, etc.—genetic mutations that go undiagnosed for 25 years are a bit more rare, apparently. As such, my body has been compensating for my weaknesses all my life. So, when my chronic pain set in the tailbone-region of my anatomy, it is the body's instinct to freeze the muscles surrounding that area.

I have been moving around with minimal glute involvement for three years but exercising at the same intensity, though less frequently. This means that my back has been doing more of the work, and deep lumbar curve I had before became excessive. To support the curve of my spine, my abdominals decided to stop contributing to movement. The exercises given to me through PT (before learning about my spine) had enough range of motion that my body was able to compensate as always, and exercises meant to strengthen my glutes and stomach worked my shoulders and medial back and forced my deep curve more inward.

Once again, I was told that there was something very wrong in my structural makeup that cannot be fixed. I was told to stay away from all high impact exercise until it no longer hurts. I finally got into see my surgeon at the pain clinic a week ago, and how they have scheduled me for another steroid injection after reviewing my CT scan, a "bilateral lumbar medial branch block", whatever that means.I have that tomorrow. I feel like they're chasing the pain, and something higher up is going to start hurting after the pain to this area lessens. I feel like this has drastically aged me…and then comes my 28th birthday.

My movement has improved since that step off the curb, and the pain is much much lower than the days when I was watching the clock for when I could take the next pill. There is a lot of talk out there about national health care. I see a chiropractor twice a month, a physical therapist twice a month, a doctor through the pain clinic every six weeks, and my primary care physician whenever I have a pain flair—add the cost of prescriptions on top of all that (plus the outrageous costs of imaging), and I would be destitute by now. At the end of 2007, the tally for my care from mid-2006 reached over $300,000, and thankfully I have insurance coverage that allowed me to pay a very small fraction of that. I have not added the services I have received since the end of 2007. Believe me, this pain at its worst is not something that you can just live with.

I haven't felt like posting before now because I really didn't see a light at the end of the tunnel, I really didn't know if the day would return where I could function without muscle relaxers to take the edge off…only just. I bought myself the new Nike+ Sportband for my birthday. I like Nike+, but I am not found of having music blaring in my ears while I am running. It's okay every now and then, but not as a rule. Running is my time to sync with your body and with the earth, which is not easy to do when Linkin Park is screaming "Crawling" over the symphony of the crickets.

I haven't exactly been given the clear to run by all parties yet, but I have come to the decision that I am not going to let this hold me back. On my 28th birthday I thought, and this is awful considering I lost my mother well before she was ready to go, "Is it mid-life yet?" I realize that this mentality stems from the fact that I am merely surviving the hand I have been dealt, never learning how to play it. I think everyone deserves to feel sorry for themselves now and then, and I have paid myself my dues, hah! I don't know why my body turned on me after I got into the best shape of my life, but I am never going to wake up pain-free, and activity throughout the day is always going to make it worse, but I can't let it victimize me any longer.

I have been running for about two weeks now. Physically, I do not feel substantially worse after a run, but mentally I am on a high. I am not a competitive person. I actually shy away from things when they start to get competitive. I do not enjoy running races because it feels like, well, a race (go figure). I guess I just run for me, and I've missed it.



So, this may seem like a pointless update, which is why I haven't made it earlier. My body is still fighting me every step of the way, but I am resolved to give more effort to push back. With just one year of school left, hopefully I won't feel like I am living so hard when I shake hands with "30".