My lower back and left knee have gone rogue; their unyielding wills snub even coffee, promises of afternoon rest, the usually consoling morning sun, and the promise of a hot, cartilage-friendly afternoon. They remain firmly opposed to errands on the concrete expanse of a Wal-Mart environment. I consider dragging them there against their inflamed wills lest they acquire an exaggerated idea of their power, but they have ways of dragging me into the abyss of their suffering. I remind them that I have done nothing extraordinary to merit their ire, but their fibers are as flint to my pleas.
At length I decide this is stupid and prepare for departure. List: check. Ridiculous-looking garden clogs that make Wal-Mart hard-floor navigation even thinkable: check. Remorse for obstinate defiance of pain and fatigue: check. Ignoring repeated attempts by spine and knees to bring recent overuse by pavement torture to my attention: check. Acknowledgment that this is stupid: check. Acknowledgement that this will happen again: check. . . .