I'm not a hypochondriac, I swear

Ever since starting the house project, I've been a mess.

First, I hurt my ankle during our very first week of work, carrying sheet rock during demolition.

Then, there were the various splinters, cuts and bruises associated with lifting heavy stuff, bumping into huge pieces of granite and contorting my body to paint a very small mudroom.

A few weeks ago, I hurt my wrist while shopping at Home Depot for floor tile. We found some slate tiles that were beautiful. Mr. KK was on the ground grabbing the boxes from the bottom shelf. He went to hand one to me and said what could only be known as the understatement of the century: "This is heavy."

Heavy?

It weighed a ton.

I managed to not drop and break the entire box of tile, but in the process sprained/twisted/hurt my wrist.

And - what's even more embarrassing than hurting myself on the job - is hurting myself while I sleep. (Comedian Greg Bernhardt does a hilarious skit about this).

I woke up in pain the other morning.

I fell asleep on my back, and Vito must have fallen asleep on my legs, rendering me completely immobile. My head must have been turned to Mr. KK's side of the bed (I said it was because I fell asleep talking to him...it's my sweet story and I'm sticking to it), because I woke up and could not turn my head to the left.

Driving was fun, because I had to turn my ENTIRE BODY in order to see over my shoulder and change lanes.

I made an appointment with the chiropractor, who is friends with Mr. KK's family.

When the secretary was giving me a hard time about making an appointment after hours, Dr. Ralph said to her, "Look at that last name. Do you know who she is? All the KK's come here. She's not a patient, she's family."

It was very Godfather-esque.

All I needed was a secret handshake. And a fish in newspaper.