Growing Pains

I apologize for skipping last week’s installment but I was physically unable to write and I’ll explain why a bit later. Moving forward, throughout my childhood, I suffered the same pains most children endured as part of our natural progression toward acne and body hair. Somehow, I managed to survive the torment of K-Mart clothes, my mother’s ability to synthesize odd foods into “casseroles” and the dawning of music from “The Captain and Tennille.” The worst youthful pain I was forced to bear came courtesy of the senseless, unprovoked violence from the sixth grade bully at St. Michael’s Elementary School, whom we'll call Bernie. Actually, his name was Bernie but I’ll withhold his last name in case he ever hears of this and wants to kill me.

As young minds are prone to do, the rumor mill was cranked up in high gear, when it came to stories about Bernie and his upbringing. Some say he shot his neighbor’s dog with a 12 gauge shotgun. Other’s said he lived in a wooden shack on the outskirts of town and everyday, ate a breakfast of cold, White Castle hamburgers and his granny’s ox-tail soup. I tend to believe this last rumor, as Bernie had a knack for dispelling gas with such ferocity that I’ve witnessed first-hand, classmates vomiting and small children crying from breathing in the noxious fumes. As I said, Bernie was the class bully and proudly executed the duties which were inherent to holding such a prestigious office. Aside from the usual recess beatings he randomly administered to unsuspecting 5th and 6th graders, he had a signature move, uniquely his own, which he violently shared with just about anyone he came in contact with. He employed this technique when he was running short on time and couldn’t devote the proper time and concentration to give you a full-blown ass-kicking. He called it a “jap-slap.” Obviously, political correctness was not high on Bernie’s list of desired traits and to remind him of this meant certain death. The slap was simply an open-handed whack upside the back of your head, which accelerated the brain into the front of your skull, resulting in double vision for the next ten minutes. The only response to the jap-slap was a nervous laugh while hiding the pain, “Huh, huh, huh…good one, Bern! Huh, huh, huh.” Then you prayed he found a new victim. He’d also accompany the slap with phrases that were complete gibberish but still managed to scare the crap out me. My favorite was,

“Hey Red! You need discipline…like Buffy, you round-headed wall-swamper!” Then he’d blast the back of my head and I tried not to cry. I discovered the “Buffy” he referred to was his dog. Just what the hell a wall-swamper is, and a round headed one no less, I’ll never know. Although Bernie inflicted pain with a style all his own, the schoolyard bully, in general, was something most of us suffered. As time passed, a new “bully” emerged to replace Bernie and with it, came a whole new world of pain. I’m referring to the onset of old age.

Recently, I’ve suffered some fine examples of once previously harmless activities, which have now caused me unbelievable pain. Perhaps you’ve experienced something similar. For example, last winter I made my way to the couch for a Saturday afternoon of sitting. As I stepped between the couch and the ottoman, I felt a soft presence with my foot but was unable to see what I was about to crush because of the darkness and armful of gooey, snacks blocking my vision. As a pet owner there are certain rules you must adhere to. If you step on something soft and you’re not sure what it is, assume it’s a paw and take immediate action to step elsewhere. With my cat-like reflexes, I did just that. Quickly, I shifted my weight off the paw with a slight leap…2 or 3 inches…tops. That tiny leap was more than enough to pop my hamstring! It didn’t twinge, strain or stretch…it popped! Somehow I managed to safely set down the snacks, then I proceeded to hop around the family room on one leg, swearing at the dog and accusing her of “doing it on purpose.” I don’t know which was more embarrassing…the fact that I was seriously implicating our dog in a conspiracy to harm me by sleeping on the floor or that while in agony, I first sought to make sure not to spill my food. I had a black and blue bruise, from the back of my knee, all the way up to my butt cheek. When people inquired as to why I was limping, I thought it best to lie and tell them I did it during my daily 5 mile run. Unfortunately, people aren’t stupid and my ruse fooled no-one…but they were polite, kept there mouths shut and didn’t press me for the truth.

A few months ago, while mopping the kitchen floor, I noticed a stubborn piece of funk stuck to the area of floor I had just cleaned. I bent over to scratch off the offending speck with my fingernail and when I stepped on the damp floor, all hell broke loose. My right foot quickly slid across the floor, while my left foot remained stationary and although I hadn’t had any formal training or instruction at any level, I found myself involuntarily performing a less-than-perfect splits. Again, with cat-like reflexes, I managed to manipulate my body to avoid the impending slamming of my genitals on the freshly cleaned kitchen floor. With the dexterity and fluidity of an overstuffed sack of dirty laundry, I came to a flopping crash on the floor. As I lay there, I found myself doing what most people over the age of 30 do, after any kind of fall. Before getting up, I stopped and starting from my head and slowly working my way down, I gave myself a diagnostic check to see if all functions were operating at normal capacity.

“Ok…I can move my head…neck feels alright…both arms seem to be functioning…stomach…stomach feels a bit soft…gotta work on that…legs are moving…okay…I’m good to go.” Only after this examination could I have attempted to get up, for fear something may have been broken or leaking. Some falls, I’ve heard…never experienced myself, can actually make the “fallee” pass gas on impact, which brings up a whole other level of embarrassment. My fall was thankfully void of rectal fireworks but it did put a hurtin’ on my groin muscles. Word to the wise…mopping is dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.

This brings to me why I missed last week’s blog and my most recent example of adulthood pain. I planned on writing the blog last Saturday afternoon, right after doing some yard work. After completing my yard work, I discovered the new “bully” hell-bent on making my life miserable. It’s the common leaf rake. All I had to do was rake up and bag a backyard full of leaves. Sounds pretty simple. After a few minutes of raking, I deduced an increase in speed would make the chore go a whole lot faster. So, I spent the next hour raking like a madman…sweat pouring off my face, cheeks all red and hot…both sets of cheeks, I might add. From my chest, my heart was pounding out a loud, deep, resonating tone which sounded like the vibrating base of a punk teenager’s car stereo system. I stared death in the face and beat him back with a rake and a good lathering of sweat coming from bad places. After completing my task and a long period of still-time to recover, I tried to get up to write my blog…“tried” being the operative word here. From what I was experiencing, I somehow managed to snap my neck. My lower back on the right side was completely seized up and in direct correlation; my left ass cheek was on fire. I couldn’t move. All this pain from raking leaves…unbelievable!

It’s tough getting old but it’s something we all have to deal with. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that I should accept what life brings you and try to make the best of it. I’ve taken steps to do this and to settle some old scores, while I’m at it. Next time I have to rake the leaves, it won’t be me do the raking. You’ll find Bernie out in the yard, working off some past jap-slaps, which will free me up to write. Thanks Bernie.