Tongue-In-Cheek … Foot-In-Mouth

Back when I was a kid I could have cut one of my legs off above the knee on a rusty slide and within thirty seconds my body would have completely healed itself.  And in no time at all I’d be back running and jumping as if nothing had ever happened.

But now in the middle of middle-age, if I so much as sneeze too hard I run the risk of wickedly wrenching something out of whack and winding up in traction.  And it’s bad enough to be in traction, but at least if you got there as a result of some really cool neat Evel Knievel-like daredevil accident, well then, that’s one thing like, for example, the skier on the opening scene from “The Wide World Of Sports,” who goes crashing down the mountain.  Now that’s a cool injury.  But if you burp and rupture a rib, I mean how humiliating, especially if you have to tell some young punk kid how you, the geezer on the block—A.K.A. “Old Man Drury,” got injured.

Example

“Hey Joey?”

“Yes, Mr. Drury?”

“How did you break your leg, arm, and shoulder?”

“Gee Mr. Drury, this morning I was riding my bike and I got hit from behind by an eighteen-wheeler.  I was then dragged for seventy-eight miles over a gravel road which was littered with porcupines and cactus; finally I was able to roll out from under the speeding truck only to be attacked by a polar bear.  But I’m feeling much better and the doctor says I’ll be completely healed by noon.”

“Cool.”

“What about you, Mr. Drury?  What’s with the body cast?  Did you get into a really cool neat head-on collision or maybe you were skydiving and your parachute didn’t open.  Yeah, I bet that what it was, right, Mr. Drury?  Huh?”

“I hiccupped and blew out my back.  My doctor says I’ll be in this body cast until at the year 3087 around noonish.”

Moment of silence

“Okay then…er…a, sorry to hear that (snicker) Mr. Drury.  I hope you feel better.”  (giggle)

See what I’m saying?  Humiliating.

Anyway it’s hard to admit but the sad truth is that I’m falling apart.  Everything in my body hurts; everything on my body is in pain; it’s hard to chew, it’s difficult to swallow; it’s a nightmare to go to the bathroom, it’s challenging to walk, and forget about “you know what.”  I’d wink at you right now to emphasize my meaning of “you know what” but I’m afraid I’d cripple myself.

But before the onset of middle age I’d routinely leap off of various pieces of household appliances—including the dog—to initiate a “romantic rendezvous.” Now, any unplanned movements like, for example, getting onto the actual bed itself can result in “situation-ceasing-seizures,” putting an immediate halt to the “activities.”  Evidently, holding one’s back, stumbling around the bedroom emitting blood-curdling cries of pain, and screaming “PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE SHOOT YOU!” has the potential to ruin the “mood.”

My hearing, too, has gone downhill since the onslaught of this middle-age-metabolism-meltdown.  As a consequence, every conversation in our home turns into a shouting match, especially at the dinner table where people who are sitting only inches away from me end up screaming at the top of their lungs, over emphasizing words, repeating themselves, pointing, and finally constructing together highly creative strings of swears, all in a sad unproductive attempt to get ME to pass THEM the potatoes!

Example

“Pass the potatoes, please.”

“What?”

“Pass the potatoes.” (Point)

“Huh?”

“Pass the pooootattttttttoessssssZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZaaaaA!”

“What?”

“PASS THE POTATOES! POTATOES! POTATOES!”

“Huh?”

“PASS THE BLEEP, BLEEPETY, BLEEPING P-O-T-A-T-O-E-SSSSSSSSSSA!”

“What?”

It seems like it was only yesterday when I was a young strong man, a manly man’s manly man.  Back in the day I was faster than a speeding quarterback; more powerful than an entire defensive line, able to leap and block the tallest of field goal attempts with a single bound.  Now disguised as mild-mannered Bill Drury who lives daily on the planet, I’m busy rubbing Ben Gay® onto my feet; massaging Rogaine® into my scalp, and dabbing Preparation-H® on my butt.

Sadly, after typing 689 words, I need to stop because middle age has caused my fingers and wrists to become arthritic, and they are starting to cramp up oljalvv aljgflac l ahjcoao[ja5805jl and I’m loosing the ability to control usojgopgl; j what I’m typing oajodsauof 0985wj cl;jc ; and my neck is getting stiff from holding it in the same spot @@@DFGUJg[0m i0 for more than three seconds, which is forcing my head 098qtojuo to fall towards the keypad hhgauyFFR$#%444y I can’t stop lauoalan ujqfjljl 0opv jluj help! 911 hjjytrhhyhyhjjkkklbhjhdddddddzrstzsrhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiffffffffffffffffffffffff

Copyright 2008 William Drury, All Rights Reserved