Tuesday, October 18
Maybe I got carried away with the Rocky stuff in my last blog entry. The fact is, I’m nicked up. I still plan to reach the top of those museum steps, but a couple people may have to carry me up there.
If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you may have inferred that I’m prone to psychosomatic illnesses. While I fully admit to having an active imagination—why should an achy shoulder be an achy shoulder when it could just as easily be shoulder cancer?—I swear my recent maladies are real. This transitional period in my so-called career hasn’t agreed with my body.
Just today, I wake up in the wee hours of the morning with the toothache I had so dreaded. Remember how my dentist had said I would “know” if I needed a root canal? Well, this is the big one—I “know.”
And then I don’t. As if to taunt me, the blasted thing goes away as suddenly as it came.
I forget about it and move on to bigger and better issues.
Wednesday, October 19
Right now, as you read my blog, you may be asking yourself the following question: What kind of weenie is this guy?
Let me clear up any possible misconceptions: I’m no weenie. Consider: Rain or shine, I work out five times a week, lifting weights and doing cardio. I’m strong, robust, and youthful. You would never guess by looking at me that I’m 47 years old.
Actually, today you might. As I’m running my beloved lunchtime circuit around the perimeter of the golf course, I’m tripped up by a sprinkler head that’s insidiously hidden under some leaves by the edge of the sidewalk. Before I know what’s what, I’m sprawled across the pavement. My right knee is bloodied, my right elbow is battered, and my ego is bruised. Hobbling through the remainder of my circuit, I’m hardly the picture of youthful exuberance.
Thursday, October 20
Today my back is also killing me, and I don’t know why. I do, however, have two theories:
• It’s an aftershock from my lunchtime running spill.
• It’s an aftershock from Frisbee. Cole and I spent a lot of time over the weekend playing Frisbee, and I showed the lad the meaning of the word “hustle” as I chased down some of his errant throws and made spectacular grabs. In the process, however, I twisted my body in ways a middle-aged body isn’t supposed to be twisted.
As compelling as those theories are, they miss the mark. Midway through my day of freelance work, as my back continues to tighten, I realize that the culprit is the dining room table, which has served as my home office for the past six weeks. Dining room tables are built for eating meals—they’re not ergonomically designed to be desks. Nevertheless, the inescapable truth is that I’ve suffered a typing injury. Maybe I am a weenie after all.
Friday, October 21
By evening, I just want some tranquility, but it remains elusive. I can’t find a position on my bed that doesn’t aggravate my back, and when I finally do, my battered elbow is placed awkwardly. At least my tooth doesn’t hurt.
Saturday, October 22
Before I was laid off from Crushed Soul, Cassie bought a Groupon for a one-night stay at a quaint spot in Lake Geneva, Wis., called the Geneva Inn. Today we’re using cashing it in. The getaway is perfectly timed—I imagine it will do my aching body and frayed mind some good.
It does. We go for a long, peaceful walk along the lake (which is good for my body, even if I’m shuffling along like Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame). And we drink a bunch of beer (which is good for my mind because it numbs pretty much everything). We even run into our friends the Plelis, who are up here for a work function. They’re the ones, remember, who gave me the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label (which was delightfully good for both my body and my mind). All in all, I’m feeling revitalized.
Sunday, October 23
The feeling lasts roughly six hours. I wake up in the middle of the night with a killer headache—not because of the beer I drank but because of my cursed tooth. As I toss and turn, I resolve to call the dentist and sign up for a root canal, find a place to work that won't wreak havoc on my back, and see to it that no other body parts stop working. Who knew that career reinvention is a contact sport?
No comments:
Post a Comment