December 9, 2008

Oh, My Aching Back

My back hurts.

It’s not the first time. Over the years I’ve performed unplanned high speed front flips into the water while I was riding the Air Chair behind the ski boat. I’ve thrown my body at linebackers the size of an SUV – a real SUV, not one of those silly little Japanese jobbies that probably wouldn’t make it across the Baja  hauling more than about 250 grocery bags full of Wonder Bread and Spaghetti-Os. I’ve gripped my hockey stick with cheerful determination and skated headfirst into opposing players who were bigger, stronger and more talented than I was – and who saw me coming.

My physical therapist has a chair in the waiting room with my name on it.

So yes, I’m fairly familiar with the whole concept of screwing myself up. The difference is that this time I can’t explain my debilitating injury with a hearty tale of courage, daring and sheer stupidity. This time my back pain is not some sort of karmic pay-back for an idea that was almost as much fun as it was ill-advised. This time what happened was, I bent over to pick up a piece of paper.

That’s right. Six years ago I won a national championship for water skiing while balancing a girl over my head on one hand. Now I’ve missed work and become best friends with the chiropractor over one ill-advised jerk on a gum wrapper. I have to admit it, I found myself kind of puzzled.

Then yesterday I went out to breakfast with my buddy, and the whole situation snapped into focus. Scanning the menu, I happened to notice the section that said, “Senior Specials – 55 and Over.” And it dawned on me that I qualify.

That’s it then. I’m a “Senior.” Not only did I get to spend the past couple of weeks popping Motrin and hobbling around like Igor in some “B” horror movie, I can now order a breakfast that comes with just one strip of bacon. I can get a discount at theaters. I can have a busboy help with my tray during the Early Bird Special at the Old Country Buffet. All I have to do in return is wear a hat whenever I’m driving the car, and leave the turn signal on.

What does it all mean? Well for one thing, I’m beginning to suspect that my sore back has less to do with that piece of paper and more to do with the cumulative effect of a whole lot of “No Guts, No Glory” decisions I made over the years. Mickey Mantle, the great baseball player, once said, “If I’d known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself.”

The Mick was one of my earliest heroes (I even insisted on being called “Mickey” when I was a kid, until a cute little black-haired girl in my third grade class told me that she thought “Michael” was the most beautiful name she ever heard, signaling the first time in my life that I gave a crap what cute little black-haired girls might be thinking). But I never took the slugger’s words of warning seriously.

Instead, I have spent my entire life launching into each new scheme with the words, “Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?” After that it was just a matter of being patient while whatever got sprained, strained, broken, cut, torn, abraded, contused or dislocated healed up. In fact, on the plus side, all the time I spent convalescing gave me plenty of opportunity to cook up the next scheme.

But now that I’m officially ordering from the menu where everything comes with a side of prune juice, just thinking about doing a sliding dock start on a pair of pizza boxes makes my knees hurt. Maybe it’s time for me to come up with a new life plan. Maybe it’s not too late to start taking care of myself, to start being a mature, sensible adult. Maybe I should approach each day with caution, fully aware of all the potential risks. Maybe I should start planning right now for a rewarding and uneventful old age.

Hmm, a sliding dock start on pizza boxes . . .

Copyright ©2008 Michael Ball. Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group.

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