I’ve been going to physical therapy for the past month or so for a herniated disc. The therapist I’m working with, Christine, is wonderful. She even got me to agree to let her try acupuncture on my spine, even though the one word that makes me cringe the most in this world is needle, and I spontaneously vomit when that word is used in conjunction with spine. But she reminded me I wouldn’t actually see any needles being (barf) inserted, unless I did an Exorcist-type head spin, in which case, I’d have bigger problems than a herniated disc.
 
For the record, the acupuncture has given me more pain relief than anything else we’ve tried. Unfortunately, it usually only lasts an hour or so.
 
Anyway, after each session, she gives me new exercises to add to my routine to help strengthen my core, my right knee, and loosen my “piano-wire-tight” calf muscles (turns out that piano wire thing is bad).
 
Last month, I was asking my best writing friend if he was still doing PT for the tendonitis in his elbow. “I’m almost done,” he said. “It probably would’ve helped if I actually did the exercises at home.” And I thought, Who doesn’t do their homework exercises? The concept was alien to me. I mean, those are the rules, right? You have to do the home exercises or your physical therapist will say bad things about you to your primary care physician, won’t they?
 
Well, not me. I wanted to get better. Plus I’m a rule follower. I started doing my exercises two, three times a day, plus sometimes in the handicapped stall at work (there’s really no other room in the building to do squats unobstructed). I did crunches on my lunch break and walked a minimum of an hour a day. And was in such crippling pain I started sleeping on the floor.
 
“You’re having a flare-up,” Christine announced when I hobbled into my next PT appointment. “Have you been overdoing your exercises?”
 
“But I wanted to get better,” I whined.
 
“Stick to the plan. Three times a week for squats. Once a day for the others. No more.” She crossed her arms, and I could just hear her mentally composing the negative report she’d give my doctor.
 
There was no use hiding anything from her. “While we’re at it,” I said with a sigh, pulling my shirt up halfway, “I have these weird dents in my torso I didn’t have a month ago. Did I dislocate my large intestine or something?”
 
She squinted. “Those are your abdominal muscles.”
 
“I have those? But . . . they’ve never made their presence known before.”
 
“Congratulations,” she said. “It’s called getting toned. Enjoy it while you can, because you’re on bed rest for a week.”
 
That’s right. For one bright, shining moment, I had toned abdominal muscles. That was really the whole point of this blog entry.
 
I’d post a picture, but they were gone the next day.

I’m in no mood to engage with the world today.
 
Before you become offended or alarmed, you should know I’m in no mood to engage with the world most every day. It’s one of the fun things that comes with being introverted.
 
The thing is, life kind of forces us to deal with the world, doesn’t it? I mean, I do my best: I try to stay in my cave—er, home—as much as possible, but there are things like having to work for a living and needing groceries and putting gas in the car that force me to leave the cave. (Think I’m exaggerating? That getting gas is no big deal? The other day, my “low tire” light came on, and I had to go inside the gas station and ask the guy behind the counter to turn the air on. It was a nightmare, I tell you!)
 
There was one woman at work I was talking to the other day (see what I mean about the whole having to work for a living thing?) who seemed to empathize. “That’s rough,” she said. “I can relate. I have the worst social anxiety.”
 
(That we were two people chatting away about how one of us is an introvert and the other has social anxiety was not ironic in the least, of course.)
 
Wait a minute, I thought. Maybe I have social anxiety disorder. Maybe this introvert thing is a load of crap, and I’m just mentally ill. So I excused myself abruptly from the conversation, no doubt making her anxiety even worse, and Googled the symptoms.
 
According to the Mayo Clinic, these are indicators that you may have social anxiety:
 

• Fear of situations in which you may be judged
• Worrying about embarrassing or humiliating yourself
• Intense fear of interacting or talking with strangers
• Avoiding doing things or speaking to people out of fear of embarrassment

 
Uh-oh. All of these were true, though I’d change that last one to “Avoiding doing things or speaking to people out of sheer crankiness.” I read on:
 
Persons with social anxiety may avoid the following, the Mayo Clinic said.
 

• Interacting with unfamiliar people or strangers. Check.
• Attending parties or social gatherings. Check.
• Making eye contact. Check.
• Dating. Check. Oh my lord, it’s true—I’m socially anxious! Here I was blaming this on marriage!
• Using a public restroom. Hold up a second. What?

 
Here’s the thing: if I gotta go, I gotta go. In my life, I’ve elbowed past people in wheelchairs to get to the handicapped stall if it was the only one free; I’ve used the potty in the men’s room in a bar while there was a Hell’s Angel standing at the urinal; I’ve tinkled in a poison ivy patch because the line at the rest stop reached out to the woods. Never, ever, in my life have I said no to a public restroom.
 
Good news! I’m just a plain old introvert.
​With a small bladder, I suspect.

​This week, Dunkin’ Donuts announced it’s adding its first gluten-free option to the menu. This new option? A fudge brownie.
 
Some people are complaining because there are thousands of other options they could have gone with (eggs, most cheeses, and potatoes are all naturally gluten free, for example, yet no fast food franchises are jumping on the gluten-free McMuffin and hash browns wagon). To offer a sugar-packed, shouldn’t-you-have-something-more-sensible, fudge brownie for the non-gluten-eating folk may not be such a giant step forward. But here’s the thing: now, if I want to meet my friends for coffee, I no longer have to watch them wolf down donuts and crullers and sausage, egg, and cheese croissants whilst silently starving and wishing they’d choke. Now I can have a brownie, plus justify this incredibly poor meal choice by saying I had no other option!
 
Don’t get me wrong: there are healthier options out there, and I’d be happier if they were on the menu. (My favorite place to go out to dinner these days is the Marlborough Pizza & Restaurant, which offers gluten-free pizza, pasta, sandwiches, fries, and potato skins. Incidentally, I tend to gain four pounds per visit.) But the worst part about eating gluten free is it tends to be a diet that excludes you. I don’t mean from food—like I said, there’s a ton of options out there: potatoes, rice, fish, chicken, dairy, fruits, vegetables, dark chocolate . . . all naturally gluten free. It’s things like manufacturers adding gluten to the ham glaze, or Burger King frying the fries in the same oil as the onion rings, that mucks up the intestines.
 
And eating is often a social thing. For example, every Friday, my workplace buys breakfast for the whole staff . . . except me (and the vegan). She and I avoid the cafeteria like the plague until the croissants, donuts, and bagels are gone, because they smell good and I want to eat them. So every Friday, everyone at work eats breakfast together, except me and Veganna. That’s what I mean about being exclusionary. I don’t want to eat out with my family or friends because of all the restrictions, and that can get kind of lonely.
 
So stop complaining about Dunkin’ Donuts. Sure, they could’ve done better. But they did something. And now I can meet my friends for coffee again without resentment.
 
Also, Marlborough Pizza rocks the universe. 
​