I hiss at them.
Eventually, I make it to the door, push it open with my forehead, and spill out into the cool hallway.
I lie on the floor for a moment as people walk around me.
I don’t have the energy to care.
My spine is gone.
My dignity is gone.
My date is gone.
Everything is gone.
I’m almost thirty.
I’m hot yoga-injured.
I might have farted.
And I think this is the beginning of something.
Not with Sage, but with anti-inflammatory medication.
Two
“Madi, you need to go to the hospital.”
I open one eye.
Piper stands over me with her arms crossed, dark hair loose around her face.
“I absolutely do not,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“You’re lying on the kitchen floor with an ice pack,” she replies. “You can’t move.”
“Yes, I can.”
I try to prove my point. What actually happens is a sharp, blinding pain in my lower back that shoots down my leg and makes me hiss through my teeth.
I didn’t even injure my leg.
What fresh hell is this?
Piper sighs and looks down at me as if deciding whether to call an ambulance or simply step over my body and let nature take its course.
For the record, this is not how I pictured my Sunday morning.
Last night, after the hot yoga incident, I took the hottest bath I could tolerate and convinced myself I’dbeaten it. I even went to bed feeling smug. Then I woke up, swung my legs out of bed, and immediately learned a valuable lesson about arrogance.
I made it as far as the freezer before gravity won.
So now I’m flat on my back, in pajamas, staring at the underside of my kitchen table.
“We should call someone,” Piper suggests.
“No.”
