Tennis, anyone?

Today I finally went to the doctor about my arm. Yay me.

Background: The week after we moved into this house, I decided that I could no longer live with the paisley-and-floral regurgitation that was splayed across the walls in our formal dining room. So I spent nine-plus hours taping, moving furniture, priming, and painting - two coats of primer; three coats of paint. Up and down the ladder, wheee!

The next day, I could not lift my right arm.

Since then - and that's been over two months now - I want to scream whenever I have to lift something like a milk jug or a suitcase or a child. I have taken Motrin, Tylenol, Aspirin, and even prescription muscle relaxants (from a former injury), all to no avail. It seems that the pain has taken up permanent residence in my arm.

I finally caved in yesterday and made an appointment to have it checked out. The doctor puts me through a bunch of "does this hurt?" ("Yes") and "don't let me push your arm down" ("Quit pushing it, then") tests, then finally comes up with a diagnosis:

Tennis Elbow.

That's a fancy name for "repetitive motion owie." It must be - I haven't touched a tennis racket in nearly 20 years. But I *did* pack up nearly our entire 2,600 sf house practically by myself, then unpacked all that junk by myself. The icing on the cake was the painting of the dining room. Ta-da!

So now I'm sporting a lovely putty-colored brace-like contraption on my right arm.

Tennis, anyone?