As I roll out of bed, carefully using the palms of my hands and not my back to lift myself up, the reality of my immortality sinks in. No, it’s not a revelation. The thought doesn’t just pop into my head one morning, I mean, come on, it’s 5:30AM, I’m not thinking anything more than ‘I need to pee.’ But the reality does slowly settle over time that I am not, as much as my 16 year old self adamantly felt, indestructible.
Man, I’m achey. Maybe sleeping on an air mattress for a college summer while I squatted in some random house wasn’t such a great idea. And if the air mattress chic wasn’t enough to turn me away, the lack of a working toilet and a kitchen stocked with, oh I don’t know, thousands of ziplock baggies should’ve done the trick. Pretty sure it was a drug den. I thought it was a score. It was free rent! Come on, you’d do it too.
Anyways, I digress. Back to my aches. I’m now paying for it. But I know sweet relief is near with my trusty morning companion – Tiger Balm. Oh man, that tiger, he just speaks to me! “Come on Sarah, lather yourself up, stink up the house like a locker room, and use your freshly relaxed muscles to maul a zebra!”
Right O’, Mr. Balm. Sounds like a plan.
For those who have never used Tiger Balm, the pain relieving ointment, it can only be described as a smell potent enough to wake someone from a coma. And the intensity of this perfume is matched by its ability to make your skin feel like it’s on fire and immersed in an ice bath simultaneously. Yet it’s some how euphorically amazing.
The front label has Chinese lettering on each side which I assume says ‘Powerful as an F150; get ready to crush your day!’ But I’m only guessing. And since I can’t reach my upper back with my hands, I convince my husband to do the work by doing my ‘angel wing dance’.
You heard right, my angel wing dance. It’s set to the theme song of Spiderman, you can check it out below to get the full experience of what this morning shit show looks like.
It’s essentially the same, but the words to my song go a little something like this:
I need Tiger Balm on my angel wings.
As I flap around my bathroom doing a hybrid of the chicken dance, singing a song to the tune of Spiderman, no makeup, most likely not showered, and definitely not caffeinated, I amuse my husband enough to set his own hand on fire/ice so I can feel some relief.
Hopefully enough time has gone by so I don’t smell like a high school football player by the time I get to work. Hopefully I don’t accidentally touch my back while putting on my bra, and then touch my face. Hopefully this blouse doesn’t retain smell like it does armpit stains. Hopefully this is not the beginning of aging… but I know it is.
That’s fine though, I’ll take Tiger Balm over achey back any day.