My vision is full of bottles, all shapes and sizes, like a party fully racked and ready to go. These bottles, however, are not the usual 26 and 40 ounce elixirs to amorous drunken happiness. No, quite the contrary! The bottles I see before me are full of pills; gels; caplets, capsules; each and every one of them full strength, extra strength, and even some with a narcotic warning: not safe for children of any age! These promises of pain reflief from over exertion, sore muscles, charley horses, and sore feet, cannot, repeat, CANNOT be promises of false advertising.
I am trying valiantly to keep the vision of myself swaying gently to the saxophones of the local Jazz Festival front and centre in my mind's eye; yes, there are even bright periods in my vision where I see myself diving head first into a whirling cesspool of caramel liquid like those multi-flexible stick men in the Robaxacet commercials!
I shut my eyes tightly and keep the fleshly shades of my eyelids lowered to my cheeks so as to blot out the more realistic reality of the morning after the marathon miles: painkillers in one hand, bottle of water in the other, ten toes looking for some feeling and two hips wishing they had none.
I am sure at that point I will be full of gratitude that at least I'm not a centipede.