Towels are parve, right?

My back went out last night because I was laying on my bed with my legs hanging over the edge, something my old physical therapist told me never to do unless I worked out until I had abs like Janet Jackson.

I haven't, by the way. I have no stomach muscles to speak of. And therefore, not only did my back do this weird cracky thing, I also couldn't move because all movement required using my tummy muscles (which I do not have, read above), or using my back muscles (which were non-functional). Stuck, very much like a beetle on its back, I took a moment for contemplation.

First, there was the satisfaction of achieving actual pain. I immediately wanted to call my mother. When we were little we were not allowed to complain to her of any malady unless we could prove it with:

1. paralyzation
2. gushing blood
3. a bone protruding from the skin
4. a fever of 102 or higher
5. vomit so constant that we could not take a breath to tell her about it.

Having achieved number one, I couldn't help but feel a little ecstatic.

And then I thought of how twisted that is, and how it's probably turned me into a bigger hypochondriac, and perhaps my back pain was actually psychosomatic.

Which led me to remembering a visit to my orthopaedic surgeon when I was 17 or so and my back pain flared up. He showed me a few x-rays of my lower back, pointing to this straight line of vertabrae.

"See this? This is not supposed to be straight. It's supposed to be your lower lumbar curve." Okay, I see it. "See this? This is where you were injured. It's healed now. Has been for years now, because there's very little scar tissue left. In other words, your muscles still think you're injured, but you're not."

In other words, he sent me to a psychiatrist because I somehow carried all of my tension in my lower back and shoulders and it was paralyzing me every so often. But it was emotional tension, or a memory of the pain that justified this pain.

And then I wondered, if that's what this is now, this pain, why is it back?

Dumbass. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the car accident that started it all when I was two days away from turning seven years old.

Not to mention the mounting tension from all of my dealings with my parents...

Or the sudden need to constantly tally my life's actions, the friends I've managed to keep, the habits I can't seem to abandon. Turning 25 doesn't actually mean anything, but I get thoughtful like this around my birthday anyway, and the big two-five seems to exacerbate the tallying.

I haven't found any answers. The physical pain, for now, needs my attention more than all of my conspiracy theories about my own brain.

And so I have soaked a towel in water, popped it in the microwave, stuffed it into my jeans a little, and now I shall lay me down while the baby sleeps. But let me ask, is there anything in kosher law about wet towels?