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When I woke up this morning, all was fine, aside from me taking a bit extra time to get going. I got to the gym a half hour later than I wanted to, so only had time for a half workout. I chose upper body, since that's my weakest area. After I'd finished all the machines, I was doing bicep curls with free weights. That's when I first noticed a bit of a twinge in my lower left back. It had a corresponding twinge in my upper right back/neck. I rubbed these areas out a bit and stretched some, and then I decided to do a chin-up.
Just as I finished my first chin-up, my neck exploded. Fountains of gibs spattered the walls. I'd been shot in the neck with a rocket launcher, Quake-style.
At least, that's what it felt like.
Apparently, it's time for my yearly whiplash flare-up. When f00 suggested we do our crunches, I almost burst into a teary swearing fit. The sensation was agonizing! I couldn't turn my neck to the left, and only painfully to the right.
After cutting my gym visit exceptionally short, I popped two super Advil. Then I biked oh-so-carefully to work and got f00 to set up the ramp and roll the clothing rack out for me. I spent the remainder of the day sitting down and either reading or working on some beading.
My neck still hurts now, but not with the screaming red thunder of this morning. I suspect the pain is only held in abeyance by the power of modern medicine. I sure hope I wake up cured on the morrow. I have a dance class to teach tomorrow night, and a dance workshop to attend on Friday. Ack!
And speaking of dance, I had a performance yesterday. I danced for a birthday party at a medical clinic. It was a doctor's sixtieth birthday, and a surprise party was thrown for him. I arrived on time, but the doctor was not in. So I was ushered to a public washroom until he showed up. In the bathroom, I removed my cover-up, stashed it in the corner, and took advantage of the time to warm up. I danced around on cold, tile floors. I posed in the mirror. I confused the hell out of women who walked in to take a piss, only to encounter a belly dancer in full plumage.
Finally, a nurse came and got me, and I was told, "He's the one standing by the cake."
I didn't even get his name, and the only reason I knew it was his sixtieth birthday party is because that was what was written in green icing on the giant slab cake.
Once again, I was wearing the liquid metal red costume, and once again, I danced to Warda and a drum solo.
There were two men by the birthday cake. Both of them looked around 60. I danced for the one closest to the cake. He looked embarassed, and gestured to the other man. "Oh! Is it your birthday?" I asked.
"No, it's his birthday," he answered pointing to the first man.
He, in turn, pointed at the other fellow.
"Well, I guess I'll just have to dance for both of you!"
When the music ended, I did a quick pose with the real birthday boy, and gathered up my things. I was a bit surprised that no one had invited me to have cake with them. Typically, when there is a whole lot of food, I'm invited to join in. I usually beg off (no one wants to see food stuck in the dancer's teeth; it shatters illusions), anyhow. But I did find it unusual for no hospitality (hee!) to be offered.
The woman who hired me told me that I'd probably be getting a lot more calls, though. Good! More gigs equals more cash.
Just as I finished my first chin-up, my neck exploded. Fountains of gibs spattered the walls. I'd been shot in the neck with a rocket launcher, Quake-style.
At least, that's what it felt like.
Apparently, it's time for my yearly whiplash flare-up. When f00 suggested we do our crunches, I almost burst into a teary swearing fit. The sensation was agonizing! I couldn't turn my neck to the left, and only painfully to the right.
After cutting my gym visit exceptionally short, I popped two super Advil. Then I biked oh-so-carefully to work and got f00 to set up the ramp and roll the clothing rack out for me. I spent the remainder of the day sitting down and either reading or working on some beading.
My neck still hurts now, but not with the screaming red thunder of this morning. I suspect the pain is only held in abeyance by the power of modern medicine. I sure hope I wake up cured on the morrow. I have a dance class to teach tomorrow night, and a dance workshop to attend on Friday. Ack!
And speaking of dance, I had a performance yesterday. I danced for a birthday party at a medical clinic. It was a doctor's sixtieth birthday, and a surprise party was thrown for him. I arrived on time, but the doctor was not in. So I was ushered to a public washroom until he showed up. In the bathroom, I removed my cover-up, stashed it in the corner, and took advantage of the time to warm up. I danced around on cold, tile floors. I posed in the mirror. I confused the hell out of women who walked in to take a piss, only to encounter a belly dancer in full plumage.
Finally, a nurse came and got me, and I was told, "He's the one standing by the cake."
I didn't even get his name, and the only reason I knew it was his sixtieth birthday party is because that was what was written in green icing on the giant slab cake.
Once again, I was wearing the liquid metal red costume, and once again, I danced to Warda and a drum solo.
There were two men by the birthday cake. Both of them looked around 60. I danced for the one closest to the cake. He looked embarassed, and gestured to the other man. "Oh! Is it your birthday?" I asked.
"No, it's his birthday," he answered pointing to the first man.
He, in turn, pointed at the other fellow.
"Well, I guess I'll just have to dance for both of you!"
When the music ended, I did a quick pose with the real birthday boy, and gathered up my things. I was a bit surprised that no one had invited me to have cake with them. Typically, when there is a whole lot of food, I'm invited to join in. I usually beg off (no one wants to see food stuck in the dancer's teeth; it shatters illusions), anyhow. But I did find it unusual for no hospitality (hee!) to be offered.
The woman who hired me told me that I'd probably be getting a lot more calls, though. Good! More gigs equals more cash.
