This Theory Just In...

Okay, Theory 3: The Theory Which is Not Mine, But Rather My Mom's...

So, I'm talking to my parents tonight, filling them in on my woes, and outta nowhere, my mom comes up with this:

MOM: You know... it could be a pinched nerve. You and Dad did carry that giant buffet down those four flights of stairs on Friday... and then you went bowling.

ME: [cut to picture of a gummy jackass going "HEE-HAW, HEE-HAW"]

She's brilliant!! I mean, she may totally wrong, but what a theory! If she's right, I might even forgive her for molding me into the sniveling hypochondriac I am today. I mean, my dad and I did carry that fuck-ass buffet down four, really tight/twisty flights of stairs. See, my parents had some friends who were moving and they mentioned that they had a nice mid-century buffet that they'd sell to us for $100, and all we had to do was drive to Evanston to pick it up.

When we got there, it was an okay mid-century-STYLE buffet (actually only about 10 years old from Dania), but we couldn't say no or we'd look like ungrateful dicks, so we lugged it down the back staircase and, in the process, I potentially ruined my entire nervous system. And of course I had to volunteer, "Hey Dad, let me walk down first and go backwards. I don't want you to hurt your back." Idiot. Yeah, that was definitely worth 100 bucks.

Oh, and THEN, that night, I was roped into taking Mr. Z to the annual day-after-Thanksgiving-bowling-party with all the second and third cousins that I hardly know over at the depressing, dimly lit Best Western motor lodge/bowling alley in Wheeling, the town with feeling. Nothing better for the old freshly ruptured neurons than hurling a 30 pound rock down an alley a coupla hundred times.

So, yeah, when the doctor asked me, last week, if I had done anything to injure myself over the holidays and I said, "Me? No!"... well, maybe I should've THOUGHT for a fucking nanosecond and said, "Oh, well, there was that 300 pound buffet..."

We'll see what the ol' doc says tomorrow morning when I present my three theories to him. I have a feeling he'll listen quietly, mull them over and then come up with a theory of his own -- That I'm a fucking douche.