It's about a seven on the pain scale.

Work:

“It’s not my heart, it’s my chest bones!”

Four Mexicans and a tiny Italian are standing around me asking me if I’m okay. Clearly, I’m not or they would have no reason to be asking.

The tiny Italian yells: “What can we do for you Liz?”

“You could stop yelling, since it’s my chest that hurts and my ears seem to be just fine.” He hustles his short legs out of the kitchen to tell Boss Lady that I’m in the Kitchen freaking out.

“What happened?” Boss Lady really does look concerned

“I picked up a tray to carry it down the stairs, it was too heavy. So instead of setting it down like a smart person would have done, I carried it anyway and now my chest feels like it has split in half. I’m having a hard time breathing in. I don’t think I can carry any more trays tonight.” I cringe.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Not particularly. Maybe I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

Driving:

I naturally underestimate how difficult it is to pull out of a parallel parking space when your sternum has clearly split in half, which makes the already frustrating task of un-parking my car excruciatingly painful. I find myself thankful there are no sharp turns or curvy roads between work and home.

Home:

A phone call to Atticus to tell him I have broken my chesticles and I fear I will not be able to move my upper body at all come morning. He suggests wine and Motrin. Wondering at his great intelligence, I take this superior advice and go to sleep with a belly full of cheap wine.

Morning:

My chest still aches, and now so do my shoulders, upper back and head. Headache most likely being caused by cheap wine. Reminder to self: Five dollar wine is not a bargain the next morning.

Concentric Circles Healthcare:

Waiting for a half hour in a paper gown and terribly sexy paper shorts, Dr. Unpronounceable finally shows up. Hearing my story of the heavy tray he thinks I must be overestimating it’s weight, it’s obvious he’s never waited tables before. A series of movement and pain rating scales later, he decides that I am not broken only sprained. I’m handed two bottles of pills and passed to the physical therapist who wants to show me some stretches for my chest. What I actually learn is that he feels comfortable picking a wedgie in front of me.

Skelaxin:

It’s like relaxing, only drug induced.

Invisibility doesn't work with the windows down.

No one can see me while I’m in my car. A cloak of invisibility envelops me the instant I shut that door. I can sing as loud as I want to, have conversations with myself, pick my nose or a pimple on my chin, and feel secure that no one is looking at me. I pump my fist, pound the steering wheel and play terrible air drums. I run over conversations that just happened, or ones that I wish would happen.

I like to believe this shield keeps me anonymous, but more likely a professor of mine, a student or some truly beautiful man in the car next to me is thinking;

“I never knew it was possible to sing ‘Part Time Lover’ with a finger up your nose.”

My invisible shield disappears the instant I roll my window down.

Apparently, some people think theirs stays intact.

I was outside yesterday, wishing I was waiting on a table instead of just waiting, when I heard the bass. I fully expected it to be a young kid in a rusted out civic, holding his camel out the window, desperately trying to look like he’s enjoying the vibrations inside his car.

What I saw was a man, probably in his late thirties in a pink oxford. His arm was hanging out the window. His F-150 wasn’t shaking under the stress of the bass. At first he was only bobbing his head, perhaps momentarily aware he wasn’t truly alone. As the song ended, and the next one began the head bob was integrated into an all out seat dance, shoulders moving, hips bouncing hand leaving the steering wheel to emphasize the words his lips had begun mouthing.

“You can do it put your back into it…”

Sunshine and The Quiet One join me on the sidewalk. Silently it is agreed that we should join this one man dance party, and so we simultaneously succumb to the shaking. Sunshine started with her signature move, a loose limbed limp in which her joints appear to be made of Jell-o and her arms fly left and right, waiting to be released from her shoulders. The Quiet One entered with a subtle cabbage patch, which soon enough turns into an all out running man. I contributed my version of the whipping boy, the trout, and a little shopping cart. Just as we were about to top this delicious pile of dancing off with a synchronized stab at a Michael Jackson crotch grab, the music stopped.

The man in the truck had been watching us.

The Quiet One turned tail and ducked back into the restaurant.

Sunshine aimed her dancing directly at him, since she needs no music to keep going.

The man in the truck waved as he finally cleared the intersection, and rolled up his window to reactivate his invisible shield.