For someone who has done as many nutty things as I have you’d really think I would have sustained far more serious injuries than I actually have.
Apart from a losing a head-butt contest with the corner of a concrete bench, standing directly behind a kid with a five iron and not hearing the word “FORE,” and slipping drunkenly in front of cops and spectators earning me my one and only ride in an ambulance I really haven’t done that much damage to my body.
I must be getting fragile in my old age ’cause I’ve got a new one to add to the list – fractured ribs.
How the hell did that happen? I spend two days this season on the mountain, one of which involved battling with sheets of ice and at the end of a very pleasant little sojurn this past Sunday, at the bottom of the damn hill, on the completely flat bit where the lifts begin I somehow end up flat on my belly with a burning ache in my chest.
OK, sez I. You wrenched an arm or pulled a muscle or something stupid like that. Oh no, sez my body. Wait until about 1 AM on Tuesday morning. The realization will be swift and painful.
Just in case you think I’m some kind of candy-ass, allow me to clarify.
Pain doesn’t bother me much. The anticipation of pain bothers me intensely, hence my dislike of needles. Given my typically over-active imagination what I’ve convinced myself is forthcoming is always orders of magnitude worse that what actually is in store. I generally don’t take pain relievers of any kind. When I had a broken ankle I maybe took one dose of heavy pain meds and then decided I’d live on Advil instead and even that prescription lasted less than a week. Compared to me, John Wayne is a sissy.
No x-rays but the almost-a-doctor agrees with my diagnosis. He did not, however:
- Let me out of work.
- Say I couldn’t go boarding again if I felt like it.
- Give me any good drugs.
I ask you, what’s the friggin point?