See, there's this thing called a rhomboid major muscle..

There are lots and lots of muscles in your body. Probably over a couple hundred, or maybe LOTS more if you count the teeny muscles that move your body hairs in response to cold or to geese stepping on your grave.

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Let's accept, for the purposes of this post, that there are several hundred muscles , and that some of them are big and powerful. Like your tongue, or your butt muscles.

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OK, with me so far?

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Grand, let's proceed.

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One of these big muscles, the rhomboid major (and let's just call it that here, because that is, in fact, what it is called in both professional parlance AND on the street by those who frequent the muscle party circuit and we want to be one of the cool kids and call things by their true names) functions to attach your shoulder blades to your spine and to waggle said shoulder blades back and forth. There is one rhomboid major muscle on each side of your upper back that vigilantly prevents your scapula from flying off your skeleton and perhaps smacking some unsuspecting bystander in the face with a wet meaty "thwack."

I must mention here that I truly believe this is a valuable service to us all.

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However, it has recently come to my attention that perhaps I have not been as appreciative of my rhomboid majora as I ought to have been throughout the span of my life. I say this because recently the rhomboid major on my left has set up a picket line of pain, and refuses to do its job without being a COMPLETE JERK about complying with even my most minor request.

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My friends, I have come to the awful realization that the rhomboid major is my pimp. I do what it wants, or it'll hurt me.

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For example, I like to lie on my right side while I sleep, in order to breathe fresh air and not snore in my husband's face (nor he in mine, let it be said). However, my sinister rhomboid major (a little medical nomenclature double-entendre for all y'all who enjoy things like that) denies this highly accommodating positional mind-bent by pitching a total hissy fit about having to STRETCH a little so that my spine can curve while my left shoulder sinks a little toward my chest.

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"Hell NO!," says the indignant rhomboid major, "You ain't bending THAT way, little missy! You been ignoring ME your whole life and now you are going to perk up and accommodate ME! That's right, bee-yotch, I say what way you lie in bed, and tonight it's gonna be FLAT ON YOUR BACK or I'll keep poking and poking and poking at you with sharp pokety pokes of pain until you give up trying to be comfy any OTHER way, because YOU ARE MY BITCH now and I RULE YOU!!"

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Sit up straight? Rhomboid major says no.

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Turn my head? Rhomboid major painfully reminds me of just who is the boss around here.

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Bend over? Ix-nay in a big way, because the rhomboid major is done with WORKIN' like that.

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The rhomboid major has me in its thrall. It reminds me to think more KINDLY of it, to CODDLE it, to LOVE the pain and RESPECT the rhomboid (call me "major," beeyotch!), or else maybe it will get the RIGHT rhomboid major to join in on the pokety stabby pain action and take me right the hell OUT for a few days.

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And my God, I can't have that. It's bad enough with one; 2 of those sadists would kill me.

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Oh, and my apologies for getting this out a little late. I spent some quality time at the KIA dealership this morning having my lovely and hardworking Optima "serviced," which reminds me of being locked in a small concrete room with nothing to do but stare at the walls for 3.5 hours while technicians try to figure out how to bleed my bank account dry.

Oh....that's right....that's what DID happen.