Massive Attack

It struck like lightning.

I was fresh from Stella, strawberries, and the New York City Philharmonic — complete with fireworks — on the Great Lawn.

I had just walked — maybe “swam” would be a better choice of words — across Central Park, and climbed five sweaty flight of stairs to my apartment (listening, it’s worth noting, to Death Cab For Cutie’s “Crooked Teeth” on repeat the whole way).

I stepped into my air conditioned apartment, and sighed with relief. I put down my bag (Blackberry, extra Pro Keds, New York, Esquire, and Giant magazines), and reached for the freezer. I pulled out a carton of Breyers Vanilla, reached for a clean bowl and OUCH! Mother fucker!

I paused — ice cream in one hand, clean bowl in the other — and assessed from where the pain was coming. ‘Stabbing sensation, upper left shoulder blade, epecially painful when I inhale.’

I tried to stretch it out: raising my left arm over my head, touching my toes. Nothing.

Then, of course, I moved on to terminal diseases. Heart attack? Cancer?

When pain finds me out of nowhere (ie: not after a race of some sort), I always wonder what the psychological implications are. Or, more succinctly, I wonder what the physical implications of psychology are. I’m a strong believer that we carry stresses and emotion in our bodies. Seems to make sense to accupuncturists, messeurs, and yoga practitioiners, right? Why wouldn’t internalize our psychology? Our issues? Our stuff? And so I wonder what baggage I’ve stored up there on my left shoulder blade.

Of course, it could be just that I’m getting old.

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