Cramps
August 5, 2001
The purpose of my day away from work was to recover from a mysterious stomach illness, but this ended up proving to be the least of my worries.
Splayed semiconscious on the lounge, drooling into a novel and foot firmly in a half-consumed bowl of cereal on the floor; I awaken groggily to discover my right arm has fallen into some sort of coma.
Violently slamming my forearm against the armrest, I will it awake - there’s work to be done, day off sick or no day off sick; and that’s my mouse hand, after all.
Sensation slowly seeps through my arm, creeping along past my elbow. Lifting my arm from the couch, it feels as if my limb is trying to wrench itself from my shoulder. I cry out in agony - apparently, my body didn’t completely agree with the position I’d fallen asleep in.
The muscle around my shoulder began burning as if white-hot under my skin. Crying out loud in agony, I attempt to turn off the muted television in front of me. Oprah suddenly appears. I scream louder.
Flinging open a cupboard and desperately scrabbling for some anti-inflammatory cream, I curse myself for positioning it in the most difficult to reach area of the top shelf. After gritting my teeth and flinging my arm into the general area of the tube of cream, my arm slides back to my body accompanied by pain not experienced since Doug Mulray Presents Australia’s Naughtiest Home Videos was broadcast.
Eyes watering, I hurriedly pull the lid from the tube and begin squeezing copious amounts of the greasy, stucco ooze into my palm. Then, after attempting application, I realise that neither my left or right hand can reach the painful area.
Hobbling around in agony and cursing as my phone begins ringing with work calls, I grab the closest thing available to aid me: a pair of tongs. Gripping them determinedly in my left hand, I attempt to stretch around, contorting both body and facial expressions, in an attempt to squeeze some cream onto my shoulder area. After some effort, I manage to do so, but am then faced with the challenge of rubbing it into my skin.
Persistently, my phone continues to happily trill. Scampering to the phone, as I make an attempt to grab it with my sore right arm, I unintentionally whack it onto the floor, where it rolls out the balcony door.
Quickly concocting a MacGuyver-style solution, I grab a kitchen sponge and fling myself onto the balcony. Positioning the sponge between the brick wall and my bare back, I grind myself vertically against the wall to rub in the cream.
‘Hello?’ I answer the phone. It’s my fellow work colleague: there’s a bit of a urgent problem, and am I well enough to go in to work?
‘CRAP!’ I curse loudly, and turn to face my neighbour’s unit. Galaga, who lives in the apartment next door, is staring at me from her bedroom window, slackjawed. It’s not every day she sees a bare-chested cursing man rubbing himself against a brick wall in almost sexual fashion.
‘Fuck off!’ I cry, much to the protest of my work colleague on the phone. Galaga pokes out her tongue, rubs her body against the window in imitation and laughs loudly.
I’ll show you, I decide. Unfortunately, attempting to raise my right arm and flip a bird is a function my body can’t perform at this moment in time due to cramps. All I can manage is a rather awkward sideways flipping motion of my hand and a womanly scream of agony. She laughs more, and snaps shut her venetian blinds.
Four people on the street are now looking up in amazement at me. I sneer and retreat to my apartment with a loud ‘piss off’.
‘What the hell is going on?!’ my colleague demands.
‘Cramps,’ I dismiss.
