On the couch

So I was stupid and picked up a heavy box of paper at work while trying to hold the door open with one foot, and I hurt my back. I'm more or less used to living with a constant, underlying pain, like a low grumble just out of earshot, but this was rather more than that. I spent most of the weekend lying down and taking muscle relaxants, went back to work Monday, and then made it through work on Tuesday until midday before having to go home and lie down again. I'm back at work today and will see how it goes.

Lying on the couch unable to do my usual routine made me ponder a few things.

• If I don't walk the dogs, no one else will. This means I spent the weekend with Brio draped across my chest, staring me in the eyeball, while Maple wrapped himself around my feet with a resigned but martyred sigh.
• My favourite thing on the planet really is reading, and luckily I can do this lying prone with my feet up. And luckily I have a lifetime supply of books in the house. Should I never walk again, I'm covered.
• I really can't read without eating, or eat without reading. I bet if I stopped reading I'd lose weight.
• As soon as I hear a neighbour start up his lawnmower, there is something in me that feels it has to jump up and mow the lawn too, even if it doesn't need it. How dare I lie here being lazy when there's work to be done? But there's a corollary to this:
• The world doesn't end if you don't get the lawn mowed.
• I like my living room. The walls are a textured gold, like Venetian plaster only matte, and when the morning sunlight comes in the window, the room glows. And I can make a shadow puppet of a panther.

And I suppose I must admit there's another point, too:

• If I didn't have my job to drag me out of the house every day, I'd likely turn into a very contented but useless blob.