I had a premonition this morning that I would hurt myself playing volleyball today.

I was on my way to work and found myself in a vivid daydream in which I was playing volleyball and I sprained my foot really badly and had to walk with crutches for a month. I even found myself writing the blog entry in my head, constructing how I would set the scene before I eventually arrived at the devastating reveal. It was already shaping up to be one of my wittier entries.

Anyway, I was out in the courtyard today at work, setting up the volleyball net for the regular Mon-Wed-Fri midday game, when I somehow pinched my finger in one of the giant metal poles. I instinctively recoiled and flung my finger into the safety of my mouth. It hurt like the devil. I just knew that when I took it out of my mouth it would be all pinched and purple. But it wasn’t. Just a little bloody. I sucked it back to heath for a few minutes and then, feeling as if the jinxed bullet was dodged, went on to play some volleyball.

It was a beautiful day – not too hot, not too windy – and all the best players from work had shown up. I was having such a good time (and was playing so well!) that I completely forgot about the impending incapacitation – until about two-thirds of the way through the afternoon. I spiked a ball beautifully for a convincing point and somehow wrenched my back in the process. I muttered to myself, “I knew it!”. It was just a tweak at the time and I played through the discomfort but, after we stopped playing and went for lunch, it started to tighten up. Ouch.

Lower back. Hurts. Can’t bend down to tie my shoes. Or pick up Emily. Last time this happened it took three weeks to completely go away. Coulda been worse, though. Coulda been a sprained foot. Maybe you woulda got a wittier blog entry if it was.