It started with a twinge in my back. Not the usual dull ache, but something sharper. Personal. The kind of pain that says, “You didn’t just sleep wrong. You’ve been living wrong, and we’ve had enough.”
Then my knee gave out halfway down the stairs and refused to continue, like a disgruntled city worker on strike. I had to side-shuffle down the rest like a confused crab wearing orthotics.
A day later, I found a crumpled note taped to the fridge in what I hope was beet juice:
“We, the undersigned body parts, have formed a union. Until further negotiations take place, we are operating at minimal capacity.
– UBFA Local 206: United Bodily Functions of America”
I blinked. My left eyelid responded. The right refused.
Oh no.
It’s a coordinated action.
🧍♀️ The Demands Begin
The knees, unsurprisingly, are the shop stewards. They’ve been grumbling since 2016, but apparently now they have a platform and a newsletter.
DEMAND #1: “No more floor seating at social events. We are knees, not beanbags.”
DEMAND #2: “Yoga shall be performed only on foam surfaces no less than 3 inches thick. Tile is a hate crime.”
DEMAND #3: “If kneeling occurs, we require hazard pay and a formal apology delivered via heat pad.”
Meanwhile, my lower back has assumed the role of self-appointed union president and entered into “Protective Rigidity Mode.” It hasn’t flexed since Tuesday and refuses to engage in any task that involves bending, twisting, or hope.
My spine has resigned entirely, citing burnout and "years of carrying this whole operation without ergonomic support."
🥴 Departmental Chaos
The shoulders refuse to bear emotional weight anymore and have started rising involuntarily any time someone says, “quick favor.”
The neck has filed for limited mobility and insists on facing forward at all times, which is fine, except during Zoom calls or when reversing out of a parking space.
My stomach? Total rogue agent. It’s seceded from the union and now self-identifies as a gig worker. It will digest only when it feels “aligned with the task emotionally.” It has also requested hazard pay for “the cheese incident” and now charges time-and-a-half for spicy food.
Meanwhile, the bladder is running a midnight protest. Every night at 2:48AM, it launches what it claims is a "non-negotiable evacuation directive,” then just sits there. Smug. Empty. Waiting to see if I’ll lose dignity or circulation first.
🧠 Management’s Response (Me)
As CEO of Me, Inc., I tried to reason with them. I offered warm baths, over-the-counter peace offerings, and one (1) physical therapy session I immediately canceled.
They responded with a migraine.
I scheduled a “wellness day.” They responded by twisting my ankle while I was barefoot in the kitchen.
Even my toes have started sending threatening communiqués. They demand hazard lights for midnight bathroom runs and say they’re considering a class-action lawsuit against “the bedframe.”
✉️ Memos from Internal Departments
FROM: The Elbows
Subject: Overuse in Sleep Positions
“We do not consent to being folded like a taco nightly. Please stop pretending you can sleep on your side without us screaming by 2AM. Respectfully, your hinge joints.”
FROM: The Liver
Subject: Re: Wine Again?
“We’ve seen the cork. We’re filing an official grievance and contacting the kidneys. If this continues, we will leak.”
FROM: The Brain
Subject: Mixed Messaging
“We cannot maintain executive function while also reliving that weird thing from sixth grade. Choose ONE mental task at a time, please.”
I am now a walking labor dispute. Every movement is a delicate negotiation. I don’t exercise—I host impromptu town halls with increasingly militant internal departments.
I used to think I was just tired.
Now I know I’m being audited by my own meat.
📎 Final Terms from the Union
UBFA Local 206 has graciously submitted their revised list of demands:
Eight hours of sleep. No exceptions.
Hot compresses on demand, not as a treat.
No more caffeine past 4PM unless you’re willing to accept the consequences.
Full halt on high-waisted jeans.
One week without pretending you can do cartwheels just because there’s grass.
Fiber. For once in your life, some actual fiber.
A sincere apology. In writing. Signed, notarized, and accompanied by magnesium.
I told them I’d think about it.
They responded by dislocating my shoulder when I sneezed.
So yes. My body is unionizing.
And honestly? They’ve got a point.