More mangled tales of woe

I need to not be sitting here. I need to be on the floor, lying on the floor, can of Punjabi chole – in lieu of a small handheld weight – in hand.

In my eternal quest for reinvention, I signed up for a personal trainer – comes free with the gym membership, and I figured it’s time to get the muscles back in shape. They’ve had it pretty easy, time to kick some butt: mine.

Alas, two seconds into my first session I was stopped, brought up short, face squinched as I tried to figure out where the pain was coming from today. I’ve learned to live with it – you live fast and don’t die young, you get squinchy hurty Christ-on-a-crutch what’s that now pain. This time, something about a rotator cuff, and now I’ve got physical therapy-type movements for a month instead of biceps that can crush skulls.

I’ve been hit five times by cars. I’ve got many scars, and now many pains to prove it.

Which leads me to wonder: Is it only gonna’ get worse? And, really, does it matter? I don’t much mind, I’m a hypochondriac, it gives me something to think about, but really, would I trade my life for less pain? Nah. Would I trade my left arm for a lifetime supply of really good pain pills that won’t give me a heart attack, stroke, powdered liver or a tail? You betcha…