The Morning After
When the alarm went off at 6:30 AM, I didn’t wake up; I was scraped off the floor. I felt like I had gone twelve rounds with a professional boxer. My body was stiff, not from bad alignment, but from the sheer impact of the hard surface. When I stood up, my joints popped and cracked like bubble wrap. My wife woke up, looked over the edge of the bed, and smirked. “How was the floor, caveman?” she teased. “Ready to admit defeat?”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to cry. But then, I noticed something strange. While my skin was sore and my hips were tender, that deep, stabbing “toothache” pain in my lower spine—the one that usually paralyzed me for ten minutes every morning—was faint. It was still there, but it was quieter. The surface pain was high, but the deep structural pain was lower. That tiny glimmer of hope was the only thing that kept me from burning the yoga mat. “I’m doing one more night,” I grumbled, hobbling to the shower.