My neck, my back, one wrong turn and I felt a crack.

Try singing that to the Khia song “My Neck, My Back”. That’s how it sounds in my head, and that’s what’s keeping me from taking Jason’s expired Vicodin.

Jason and I went to Buffalo for his grandma’s 80th birthday, and ironically, I got my first old-person injury. You know the kind, the kind your parents complain of – making a slight movement, like in the garden or reaching for an eraser, and herniating a disc or misaligning whole portions of their spine.

I was simply attempting a Cirque du Soleil move with Jason in his parent’s basement during a game of pool. I jumped on his back, he bent forward, and I kicked my legs in the air behind me. As my back arched, I heard a crack-crack-crack.

I spent the rest of the weekend lying on the floor, listening to conversations. It was actually quite humbling. I’m a talker, so to be forced to remain out of sight was good for me. Still, I feel like I’ve been betrayed by my body for the first time, at age 28.

(I’m going to the chiro tomorrow, and should be fine – thanks for letting me talk like an old person too. This should be my dad’s blog, not mine. Hey pops, when are you setting up www.crankyoldfarmer.com?)