I remember the early days, my back was a drum. A dull, insistent beat against my lumbar. Started in my late forties, maybe early fifties, when the office chairs were those molded plastic contraptions that offered less support than a wet noodle. My doctor, a young man fresh out of medical school with bright, hopeful eyes, called it a "degenerative disc" – a phrase that sounded far more clinical than the actual dull throb I felt. He scribbled "physical therapy" on a slip, an almost casual suggestion, like recommending a new brand of coffee. But I saw the price tag in my mind's eye, a flashing neon sign for a month of rent, or worse, groceries. Practicalities, you see, were always the dominant chord in my symphony of existence. So, I ignored the recommendation. Not out of defiance, but necessity. The ache became a constant companion, a quiet passenger in my daily commute, a gentle hum during meetings. I’d shift, squirm, try to find that fleeting sweet spot of relief that never quite materialized. Instead, I saved. Pinched pennies, skipped the extra coffee, packed lunches that were more sustenance than joy. And when I had enough, I didn’t call the physical therapist. No. I marched into a fancy office supply store, a palace of ergonomic wonders, and bought the most expensive chair they had. It was a beast, all mesh and levers and hydraulic lifts, promising a posture so perfect it would realign the very constellations. It felt like a triumph, a workaround, a clever dodge of the inconvenient truth. I remember laughing, a dry, dusty sound, at the sheer absurdity of it all. It was like buying a gold-plated bandage for a bone-deep fracture. That chair sits in my office still, a monument to my particular brand of self-deception. It’s comfortable enough now, mostly because my back has simply… given up the ghost of protest. The pain isn't gone, not really. It’s just receded, a faint echo in a quiet room. Sometimes, when the wind blows just right, or I lift something a little too heavy, I feel a ghost of that drumbeat, a reminder of the path not taken. A road paved with good intentions and economic realities, leading straight to a very fancy, very expensive, entirely inadequate piece of furniture. Funny, isn't it? The lengths we go to avoid the simple, often cheaper, remedy. The way we choose the grand gesture over the steady, unassuming repair. And the way those choices, years later, leave a faint, sad taste in your mouth, like a forgotten cup of tea.