I left work early yesterday due to a blinding headache that was preventing me from doing much more than stare at my keyboard. Even after loading up on Advil, getting Michael to rub my shoulders and passing out, it wouldn’t go away. I woke up with it again this morning, groggily called out of work (sorry, Mike. I’ll be back tomorrow.) and went back to sleep.

As soon as I was up, I called my massage therapist, practically begging on her voice mail to fit me in today. Luckily, she came through and at 1:30 I was drifting in and out of a dazed state as Norah Jone crooned quietly in the background.

The massage was heaven. She worked out all the knots and kinks that had been bothering me, plus some I didn’t even know I had. (Did you know your forearms can seriously hurt from typing all day? They can. Ow!) When I rolled over onto my stomach, my face pressed into the toweled face-doughnut, I expected the usual pain–that good pain that comes with massaging my shoulder blades. What I was not expecting was for her to get to my lower back/upper butt and be writhing in pain.

“What did you do to yourself?” she cried. “This is the worst I’ve ever seen you!”

It was so bad she was coaching me to breathe as she worked out the knots. Ow, ow, ow, ow, owwwww!

Seventy-five minutes later (15 minutes longer than usual because, did I mention OW?) I was up, red-faced and slightly dizzy. She cautioned me to take some Advil, drink lots of water and lie down, since the massage released a lot of toxins and I might feel sick later.

I don’t feel sick yet, but I do feel groggy. So I’m taking my slightly less-tight self back to the couch.