I hurt my back this afternoon by sitting down at my sewing machine.
My afternoon plans included a run and the lifting of a couple weights, and I wish I'd not been a slug and done both this morning, before becoming practically incapacitated. I can't stand up, sit down, roll over, bend over, or do much of anything else without excruciating pain.
I knew my back was connected to the rest of my body, but who knew it was so involved in putting on your socks? I feel like I'm 85.
I believe this is karma biting me in the, um, back.
Last week, for example, I made fun of my boss for hurting his bad back, telling him he was old (he's two years older than me). And when I was a reader for a blind woman at the Department of Labor, sometimes the worst things would just fall out of my mouth, like when she told me that she'd had a seeing eye dog who went blind and I blurted out "The blind leading the blind!" Boy, was I mortified.
Ever since I started giving thought to karma, I've tried to put positive energy out, consciously tried not to hate anyone. It's not like I was ever a big hater anyway.
Aside from a few elected officials, there's only one person I know who I actually used to say I hated. She was the president of an organization I used to work for, and one of the most malignant humans I've ever encountered. I'll call her D. A couple years ago I moved from hating D to wishing ill upon her. A friend pointed out I was still putting negativity out into the world.
I've since graduated from actively wishing her ill to the following: If someone else were about to push her down the stairs, I wouldn't encourage them, but I wouldn't stop them. Or if, for example, she contracted that flesh eating bacteria, which I don't wish on her, but if she did get it, I wouldn't mind if it started on her face.
I also have occasional moments of meanness. The thing about me being mean is that when I am, the things I say are accurate, and really don't need to be voiced, which makes them even meaner.
A small example, which involves the ex-boyfriend, took place recently, when he and I were talking about a woman he dated last summer. I referred to her as "frizzy orange haired girl who likes to dress in pastel print outfits" to which he replied, "Don't be mean. She was nice."
Actually, she seemed very nice, which I then admitted to him. He said, "She was too nice. I got bored."
I later told my friend Erin that B had said he got bored of frizzy orange haired girl because she was too nice. To which she said, "Well, at least that's one problem you know you'll never have."