Earlier this week, I apparently slept with my right ear completely parallel to my shoulder and woke up to the most excruciating pain in the neck you could imagine. By midday, I considered investing in a neck brace, or halo, but ultimately decided against both. By 6 p.m., I thought, "Well, I cry about once every three years. Maybe it's that time."
When bedtime rolled around and I was suffering a straight-up PINCHED NERVE that certainly warranted a pain block or (even better) a chunky Lortab, I instead campaigned for the Sympathy Vote, which is what women are supposed to be good at winning. Because we're so overworked and stressed and all. And my goodness, why don't you just sit down -- better yet, LIE down, because you look exhausted, and clearly you don't feel like bossing everyone around and cleaning up after people who, honestly, should have the good sense to clean up after themselves.
Chances of earning the Sympathy Vote are increased with the proper attire. For the Sympathy Vote portion of this competition, I chose a pair of the most unattractive sleep pants ever made and a t-shirt that fits nobody in this house -- because nobody in this house weighs 350 lbs. For effect, I applied an excessive amount of acne medicine and pulled my hair into an unfortunate-looking ponytail.
I held one hand on my forehead, the other around the side of my neck, walked out of the bathroom and to my side of the bed. As I walked, I said, "Gosh, I sure wish you were a chiropractor."
He never looked up from his book, but said, without pause of any kind, "Gosh, I sure wish you were an exotic dancer."