I am going to be the world's grumpiest old man. I just know it. Heck, I'm more than halfway there and I'm only twenty-six years old.
Last Thursday I went to the gym in the morning for my regular routine - walk a bit, bike a bit, lift a bit - pretty much show up all of the old folks who would go to the Burbank YMCA at 7:30 in the morning. I left feeling triumphant.
"Rar! One side, old man, as I furiously pedal the LifeCycle at three times the speed that you would! Move it, toots, get back to your crochetting as I bench press seventy-five whole pounds! One side, hobbled old geezer, as I walk on the treadmill at a brisk four miles per hour!"
Yeah, I'm rugged.
So anyway, in my post-excersize gloating/stretching, I felt a weird tug in my back. Ouchie.
I get home and shower. I start to towel off. GAH! Sharp pain in lower back! DAHHHH!!
Gracefully and manlyly I drop to my bed like a sack of old potatoes, clutching my back. After ... resting ... for fifteen minutes I try to stand. Nope. It ain't gonna happen.
So I sit. And wait. And look at my ceiling. And wonder just how lame would it be if I called in sick to work because of my back?
But the phone's in the living room. And I'm in my bedroom. Naked. On my bed. Towel nowhere in sight (albeit my line of sight is, well ... the ceiling.)
And my roommate is home, so I can't stumble out to the phone bare-ass nekkid. Worse than that, the blinds are open. All of my neighbors would see my nudity.
Ah-ha! If I yell and wake my roommate up, she could call in sick for me! I'll just cover up and yell loud-like.
But, no. That's not going to work. This is the woman who doesn't wake up to her own alarm in the morning. Seriously, sometimes I wake up first and have to go knock on her door. That's always fun at 5:45 am.
Shoot, what time is it now? My alarm clock is sadly not within my line of sight. I knew that Brookstone CeilingClock2002 was a good idea. Damn.
Another five minutes pass. I have no more good ideas. I finally grit my teeth and lumber my way up to a standing-ish position. It doesn't really hurt ... once I get there. Good. Lying flat on my back and standing up straight don't hurt. It's just everything in-between that feels like tiny midgets are stabbing my kidney-type area with sharp knives.
Then I get the genius idea to stretch it out. I almost, almost end up face down on the floor in a situation that I can't even bear to tell you. I don't, thank the heavens, and wind up slowly getting dressed like a little old man. I need slippers, damnit! Billy, where are my slippers?!?
Honestly, this sucks so bad that if Zak lived in the state I'd call him up and get him over here to jimmy with my back. And I have always promised never to let him touch me. See? That's how much pain I was in.
Driving to work was a hoot (love that clutch), and shlepping around work like I wasn't in pain was a real hoot. Dude, besides the fun candy coating, Advil sucks! They had better make some good medicine by the time I'm old, that's all I'm sayin'.
Which leads me back to my thought: I am going to be the world's grumpiest old man. I'm going to get a cane to hit kids with, and kick puppy dogs, and possibly even steal Christmas. When I grow up.
Last Updated on: August 20, 2002
© 2002-2004 Joshua Paul Edwards
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