Does It Hurt When You Do That?

When we last left our magnificent hero, he was addressing his anxiety over his questionable eyesight, which had followed his brush with cancer, which was preceded by the reattachment of one portion of his shoulder to another. If that wasn't enough of a pain in the ass, now there is one. Translated further to also being hamstrung by a hamstring and slowed to a crawl by a calf (which is definitely not a young cow). As my friend Steve used to advise when I reported to him of one malady or another, "does it hurt when you do that, then don't do that." There is barely any "that" remaining to do.

At the moment I am only in discomfort when I lie down, sit, stand or walk. Apart from that, I would say I am good to go. To the medicine cabinet.. Staring directly at the pills that say "don't ingest if you wish to stay in even remote contact with this universe."

And thus, another truncated season of trying to remain upright while hurling myself down a mountain on a pair of sticks, appears to have ended with a definite thud. Felled without a fall.

How, you might wonder, did this diminished version of my diminished version come to pass? Thanks for asking.  Sitting in a car, doing nothing. That's what it is like to be 70 I fear. Oh, maybe it was helped along by my ignoring the flashing neon light warning signs as I regaled all with my tales of carrying my four year old granddaughter up and down a small mountain in all her ski regalia. Or not doing anything remotely associated with trying to strengthen what I know is my achilles heel (well, not literally, but you follow where I am drifting).

I am quickly running out of fingers to count my present maladies. And I can only guess my long beleaguered family is running out of patience with my giving book, page and my "War and Peace" recitation on how each of my woes is faring at any, and virtually every, particular instant, and how wonderful I am for not complaining about them.

Returning once more to physical therapy, greeting the assembled as old lost friends. Informing all that I was happy to see them. But not really. Actually, not all at all.

So gluteus maximus is my new Latin phrase of the day. My vocabulary essentially limited to "not so good, thanks" or "don't ask".

Does it hurt when I write this? Then I can barely imagine how painful it must feel to be on the receiving end of the thoughts of an ass (not me, it).