I'm 27. Twenty seven. Not 67. I feel the need to clarify this, because as we speak I am sitting with a heating pad wrapped around my waist attempting to relieve the major lower back pain I have been in for the last 2 days.

What was I doing when I threw my back out? No idea. When a 27 year old throws out their back, there should be a good story to go with it. A story involving base jumping or rock climbing or bungee jumping.

It should not be the story of a day spent folding laundry, and tightening the screws on a coat hook, and unloading the dishwasher. And yet, the day I threw out my back, that's pretty much all I did. It was a day filled with chores and lying on my couch. And yet, by Monday night I could barely move.

Yesterday was better. Sure, I was stiff and sore, but I came into work anyway. I figured, I was going to be stiff and sore no matter where I was, might as well try to earn an honest living. And even though I left a bit early, I still did ok.

By last night, I was hurting so bad every time I tried to move that I called Nick begging for drugs. Legal drugs, of course. Not that I would ever use any medication that was prescribed for someone else when they got whiplash. Of course I wouldn't do that. That would be wrong. I'm sure it was just the pain talking.

I'm feeling quite a bit better now. Not 100% for certain, but better. I'm only in for a half day today, and this is an off Friday, so hopefully I'll be able to recover fully before next week. Because I'm not sure that plane to London is going to have anywhere for me to plug in my heating pad.

God I'm old.