So, in four words, I’m kinda laid up. Nothing bad or critical, nor, much to her chagrin, fatal. Unless, of course, you count aging and stupidity as fatal; if that’s the case, I’m guilty of both and on a collision course with death. Not a glorious cocaine-and-hooker-laden death like Charlie Sheen, more like with the headlines “Man Bends Over To Pick Up Penny And Drops Dead.”
Like all cataclysmic events in the universe, this one came crawling into the room, unnoticed until it was too late. Here’s how I want the history books to record this event of epic proportions: “as Uli was attempting to smash a world record by deadlifting 978lbs. without even warming up, he suffered a neurological anomaly which resulted in a severely crippling injury. Women the world over proceeded to hurl themselves off of cliffs and in front of speeding trains to escape the wrenching agony brought about by his downfall. He’s expected to make a full recovery in three days and will be once again smashing records and breaking hearts.”
The truth is more like this here: “I bent over to pick up a measly 65lbs. worth of weight at CrossFit, and by the x- number of reps, something went “twannnngg”, and I was done. I’ve since been shattered to a whimpering, whiny pile of puny-ass, reduced to looking for Oreo crumbs on the corner of kitchen floor, where I’ve been since Thursday.”
I’ve spent the remainder of the time, when not at the chiropractor or chewing on Ibuprofen like they were Skittles, trying to defend the tragedy within. “I swear, it was really no big deal, I have no idea what the issue was, normally I can bench press school buses” I mumble and attempt pass off, though no one is buying it. There’s also no cache in lame, completely improbable scenarios, either. “Yeah, I turned around to catch an errant dust mote, and BOOM! I was on the floor.”
There was nothing but trying to lift some light weight without responsibly warming up, first.
It’s called getting old.
The chiropractor had a fun and fancy name for whatever the hell my lumbar action is up to, but really, it’s just being old and out of shape.
And as I lay there on the kitchen floor, casting about glances for errant food that may have fallen from the counters, I’m forced to confront this new reality. In the age of the druids, I’d be considered a very senior citizen with one foot in the grave and a rune-script headstone declaring “he lived a long 36 years.”
Hours later with some muscle relaxers on board thanks to the mysterious Brown Sugar, I’ve curled up into a fetal ball on TOP of the kitchen counter, ready to take on the world.
As long as the world weighs less than 65lbs.