Cat. Cow.

(That is actually not a picture of me.)

I started participating in hot yoga classes back in February after I pulled my back out.  I’ve done it a couple of times a week since.  And yet, there are parts of it I still don’t get.

The instructor implores us to breathe.  But I do that almost all the time, even when I’m not in class.  But it is a major focus for her.  She not only wants us to breathe, but she wants us to breathe loudly.

“Take a deep breath in, totally fill your lungs, all the way through to your pelvis (how do you even do that?).  Now blow it out!  Let your neighbor hear you.”

I don’t like other people’s breathe.  It should be personal.  It’s been all inside you.  Yuck.  Keep it to yourself I say!

One guy came into class late last week and was breathing so loud I thought he was on a ventilator.  Rude.

And some of the positions she puts us in.

Happy Baby pose: Lie on your back.  Pull your legs to your chest and grab your feet.  There is nothing happy about that pose to me.  It is actually Sad Baby pose when I do it.

Down Dog:  Make a “V” with your body.  Feet behind, hands on the ground in front of you.  Stay there for an endless amount of time while the instructor stands tall and watches you suffer.

Gorilla:  Bend over at the waist.  Stand on your hands.  Like literally, put your hands, palm up, on the ground in front of you and then put the soles of your feet on your hands.  The worst part of gorilla is that now your hands smell like your feet for the duration of the class.  For those of us who wear loafers without socks in the summer, it is not a pleasant smell.  Not at all.

We do butterfly, pigeon, dragonfly, frog, and sphinx.  Oh, and don’t forget cat and cow which are actually fairly simple.  The only problem I have with those are that I want to make sounds to accompany the pose.  Meow.  Moooo.  Meow.  Mooo.  She WOULD NOT like that.  So I suffer in silence, listening to my neighbor’s breath.

They also use language that for a non-yogi, is difficult to understand.

After class I ask Julie, “What is Thin Casa Mow?”

“Ah, that’s Vinyasa flow.”

“Well I was close…”

Apparently Vinyasa is a kind of yoga or something.  Flow is a series of yoga moves.

My favorite is when we stand tall, Tree, holding our arms in the air.  That one I excel at.

You’d think I’d like corpse, that’s at the end of class, on the floor.  You lie on your back with your arms out by your sides.  Palms up.  Eyes usually closed.  But it reminds me of being at the doctor’s office.  I’m afraid someone is going to run in and try to take my blood out of my arm veins.  So I keep one eye open – just in case.  I hate it when they take my blood.  I feel so vulnerable.

So I started hot yoga in February because I pulled my back out.  Last week in hot yoga, I pulled my back out.  What the heck?  I can’t win.

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I now have a college graduate. DJ is pondering her future. She will land well.  She always does.

Her ponderance of job possibilities made me think back on my work history.  She has definitive ideas about what she does not want to do.  You gotta start somewhere, but I don’t blame her for being excited about sitting in a cubical all day.  That might drive me mad.

Perhaps the best job I had was collecting quarters from Pop-A-Shot basketball arcade machines.  I’d hit bars midday, fix any issues with the game, collect the quarters and go home and count the loot.  I’d bag the dough, keep 10% off the top – tax free, and haul the rest in a locked bag to the owner.  Some days I’d pull $400 leaving me a whopping $40 for about an hour’s worth of work.  That was a truck load of money back in 1986!  Like two weeks’ dinners at the K & W back then.

The job I hated most was working in the men’s department at Thalhimer’s Department Store at Cross Creek Mall in my hometown, Fayetteville, NC.  Yeah, I got a discount, purchased my first double breasted sports coat, it was white, but it wasn’t worth it.

Thalhimer’s sold about 50,000,000 sweaters over the Christmas holiday.  I folded each one three times a day in December.  What the heck?  Some folks would come in and unfold 15, 16 sweaters at a pop and then walk out the store empty handed, not buying a single one.  Rude.  That’s probably why I hate doing laundry today.

One time we had a hand written note on the cash register from management.  It described a woman who would come in the store and return used Members Only jackets.  They’d be obviously worn, but apparently employees would just blindly give her cash back.

Not on my watch.  Homegirl came in with a gray jacket that had Clorox stains on the sleeves.  I excused myself and called security.  She was escorted out at gunpoint.  The next day, Weezie, that’s what we called the head of HR, brought me a single rose in a vase for my bravery.  It was a nice gesture, but I would have preferred a couple of hour reprieve from the folding.

I didn’t much enjoy retail.  People were not grateful for my service, they were pigs in the dressing rooms, and there was always someone stealing.  I won’t suggest DJ go to work at the mall.  But, I might suggest Amazon.  The don’t have any dressing rooms.

You Said What?

I was trying to find a couple of presents for Julie for Christmas. She is way more thoughtful than I.  I knew she’d creatively celebrate me.  She’s just so good at that.  We gave each other a weekend away as our primary gift, but I wanted her to have a few things under the tree to open on the big day.

One of my very stylish daughters asked for a pair of leggings she found online.  I ordered two, one for DJ and one for Julie.  I wrapped Julie’s and put it in her stack of gifts on Christmas morning.  When she opened the present, the name brand of the stretchy wear was prominently printed on the box:  SPANX.

“Oh honey.  I can’t wait to tell my friends that you got me Spanx for Christmas!”

We laughed.  She paused.  “Is there a hidden message here?”

“They’re leggings!!  Just leggings!  Because you’re so fit and do yoga all the time, you fit female you!”

The more I spoke the deeper I dug.

She really wasn’t offended; we all had a great laugh.  Since then, Julie and I have recounted the story and have started a list of things not to say or do when you’re trying to find your mate.  We plan to share these suggestions with our future sons and daughter-in-law.

Number 1:  Don’t give your girlfriend Spanx as a gift.  Ever.

I also learned it is not great when I complain about my weight loss: “Baby, I accidentally lost 4 pounds today.”  Sometimes it happens – well for me.  Apparently not for her, or the other four females in our home, and they really don’t want to hear about my sudden shedding of self.

Number 2:  Don’t tell your girlfriends when you accidentally lose 4 pounds.

I was thinking about what girls shouldn’t say to guys and remembered being at a bar in my early twenties with a buddy of mine.  We were sitting by two attractive women and Andy struck up a conversation with the cute blonde.  She asked if we played any sports.  He said he played football in high school.  Her response?  “But you’re such little men.”

Seriously?  I’m over six feet tall and have been since my sophomore year in high school.  I’m not overweight, but I’m certainly NOT little.  I still take offense at that comment.

Number 3:  Don’t tell a guy he is little – or that any part of him is little for that matter (unless you’re talking about his stomach).

These are lessons we will pass on.  Maybe our kids will have easier communication if we share our past mistakes.

The Colonoscopy Chronicle

Just waiting for the cranberry to kick in…

Tuesday, May 21, 4:45 PM

Colonoscopy scheduled for 8:45 AM tomorrow.  Let the games begin!

I just drank a bottle of Clenpiq.  It is supposed to clean out my colon.  Actually mine stays fairly clean – if you know what I mean.  The box says it is cranberry flavored.  Is that what that was?  Maybe cranberries that were eaten and thrown back up.  Mixed with rotten cabbage.  And raw beets.  Dis-gusting.

At work today, they served make-your-own deli sandwiches at our Board meeting.  I drank water.  In fact, I haven’t had solid food since last night.  I fear that out of desperation, my stomach will eat my spleen.

I am sucking a lemon cough drop to rid myself of the “cranberry” taste.  It is embedded in the crevasses of my mouth.

7:11 PM

Ooops.  Forgot to take the laxative at noon.  Well, forget is the wrong word.  I choose not to take it because I work.  Someone told me I should have taken Tuesday off for the prep.  What would I tell HR?  I need the day off to poop?  I’ll take it now.  Better late than never.  I guess.

7:42 PM

The laxative is working.  Thank goodness for Spider solitaire.  I wish I had a TV in my bathroom.

9:22 PM

I am now peeing out of all orifices.  This is unreal.  It is as clear as Evian.

10:56 PM

This must end.

Wednesday, May 22, 2:00 AM

Henson and Fuerst Law Firm.  Who advertises on local TV at 2 AM??  Who is watching this except people prepping for their colonoscopy who also didn’t take the laxative until 7:11 PM?  I think those attorneys need a new marketing director.

6:00 AM

It continues but how?  I think the fluid from my brain is coming out.

8:45 AM

I am nude save a cotton gown with a slit up the back.

Me:  “Can I get the IV in my hand?  I don’t like you digging in my arm veins with that teeny little needle.”

Nurse:  “You can if you have good veins in your hand.”

Me:  “I have the best hand veins your eyes have ever seen.”

9:12 AM

“We’re gonna give you some medicine that will make you drowsy.”

10:01 AM

“Mr. Tanner, it’s time to wake up.”

Honestly, I have no idea what happened in that 49 minutes of my life.  They could have shot me out of a cannon at the circus.  Who knows what they did to me?  I feel so clean.

Doctor:  “You have a beautiful colon.”

Me:  “I KNEW it!”

I also had an endoscopy.  They stretched my esophagus so I could eat larger amounts of food more quickly.

10:50 AM

Chicken salad bagel, salt and vinegar chips, coffee.

Free and clear.  Ten more years til the next.

 

My wife died nine years ago at age 39 from colon cancer.  We take colonosopying very seriously at my house.  My daughters will start theirs at age 29 due to family history.  If you are 50, don’t delay, make your appointment today.  If you are any age and are having significant issues with your digestive system, please go get checked.  If you have a family history, you already know what to do.  Many forms of this disease are treatable if caught early.

One Down, two to go

At age 17, in late August of 1983, I drove my blue and white, two door Chevy Chevette to Wingate College in Monroe, NC, where I started my secondary education. My mom was in the car with me. My father followed with the majority of my stuff in tow.

Still 17, in mid-September, 1983, I surprisingly fit all of my belongings back into my Chevette and drove myself back home. I can’t really explain what happened. I didn’t have a traumatic experience or anything. I just didn’t want to go there anymore.

As I recall, my father got all or most of his money back, which lightened the blow a bit. But still, if I couldn’t be successful at a college that was only two hours from my house, that was about the same size as my high school, with two of my best friends in in a dorm nearby, it certainly appeared I might likely stay with my parents forever.

To all of our surprise, even mine, I headed to NC State the following fall, a gigantic university in the capital city, and never looked back.

This weekend, DJ graduates from The George Washington University in DC. I’m not sure why they call it THE George Washington University, but they are very specific about the THE. Perhaps there are other GW wanna be’s and the THE brands this one as the real one.

I recall the drop off at her dorm. I had to don sunglasses inside to hide my welled up eyes. She was OK, but not great either. DJ had four roommates and two of them had arrived early and scored the primo corners of the very small room. She was stuck with the girl from Vermont with the smaller closet and bunk beds. I tried ever so hard to make lemonade.

“Maybe the top bunk will be warmer in the winter.  Heat rises ya’ know.”  I had a lump in my throat for a full 24 hours anticipating the final goodbye.

We hid her plastic “Pink Baby” in her pillow case. She’d slept with her since she was two. I cried like a blubbering idiot the first fifty miles headed home. But I adjusted, and she did too.

A lot has changed in four years for both of us.

I have since dropped a second child off and only cried for twenty miles when I left.

DJ lives in a brownstone near campus and spent a semester sailing around Australia.

I redecorated her bedroom at home and finally stopped trying to plan spring break trips for the family – which she was not interested in attending.

She interned at Politico and worked at the Correspondent’s Dinner a couple of weeks ago. She did not meet Robin Roberts or David Muir. But cool nonetheless.

I exercise and stretch more since she left and have dabbled in hot yoga. I’m spending a bit more time on me.

She jogged to find the Chic-Fil-A food truck simply to get a taste of home.

We’ve both come a long way.  And I’m sure we both have a long way to go.

But dang, I’m so stinkin’ proud of her accomplishments!

A Manner-less Father

revolving2

Being a single dad with three young daughters was scary.  Early on, there were things that caused me a great deal of anxiety.  One was my ability to raise girls who weren’t totally oblivious to typical societal norms.   I really wanted them to be poised – to have good manners.  So, I sent them to Cotillion.

I’m from Fayetteville.  We don’t do Cotillion there.  Although my mother is lovely and has very good manners, she raised a house of boys.  A win for her was no passing gas during Sunday lunch.  Learning to use a bread knife was low on her priority list.

The first year of Cotillion was focused on learning the basics.  A few dance moves, everyone loves a good Fox Trot, boys getting potato chips for the girls and dressing for success.  We learned a great deal through this process.  Gloves are a great way to mitigate gross, sweaty hands.  Wing tips hurt when they clomp on sandaled toes.  Boys are often shorter than girls in 5th grade.

On evening after class, my youngest daughter came home in a huff.  “Dad, you’re not going to believe this one!  During the slow dance tonight, the boy I was dancing with held on to my underwear the entire song!  Like gripped them on either side!”  I was amused but unalarmed.  “I’m sure he didn’t know – he probably wasn’t wearing any himself.”  Sounds like something my older brother would do.

Years two and three were more focused on manners.  One of my kids shared with me that if you go into a building with a revolving door, there is etiquette on how to proceed through.  Apparently if the door is not moving, the guy should go first to get the door started.  If it is already moving, the woman should go through the door first.

I’m assuming this was designed so that the “weaker” sex wouldn’t have to strain to get the revolving door revolving.  That is not the case in my house.  My fiancé could pummel most guys.  She’s strong.  Hot yoga’s her thing.  She can hold a plank for a solid afternoon.  And, she has impeccable manners.  I’ll not be starting the revolving door for her.  She’s more capable than I.

This dad raising three daughters alone left a number of gaps.  Belches aren’t all that uncommon.  Mouths are often full when talking.  Gum might be chewed at church.  Forks, spoons and butter knives are interchangeable.  And I’ve taught them to smell their clothing to determine whether it really needs to be washed.  I didn’t realize that was questionable until very recently.

But somehow, perhaps through out of my house osmosis, they’ve come out alright.  Strong, attractive, polite and well-mannered young women.  Or maybe it was Cotillion.

 

 

To My Surprise

Kyle

I don’t want to spend a lot of time talking about the specific boy.  It is really irrelevant at this point and not appropriate for me to be expounding upon… yet.  But for the first time, my eldest is dating someone – although I’m not sure she used that term and if I get it wrong, I’ll hear about it.  Maybe they’re going out or courting or strongly connecting.  Who knows what they call it now?

I’m not saying she has never dated before.  She has.  This is the just first time it seems to be sort of exclusive save “The Donald” from 10th grade that lasted about a month and ended tragically, for him, at Moe’s Tex-Mex restaurant in Cameron Village, an upscale strip mall here in Raleigh.

Although, as all this has unfolded, I could totally be wrong.  She could have dated exclusively, and I had no idea what’s went on!  I continue to learn things about our kids that surprise me.  I don’t think the five of them are truly coming clean.

I’ve heard this guy’s name for two years now.  We’ll call him Harry.  It sort of went like this:

Me:  “What did you do this weekend DJ?”

DJ:  “Well, Harry and I watched a movie at his apartment.”

Me:  “Hmm.”

Next weekend –

Me:  “What did you do this weekend DJ?”

DJ:  “Well, Harry and I went to dinner and then a party at his Fraternity.”

Me:  “Hmm.”  Harry again.

I mean I’m not stupid.  Last fall I commented that she and Harry sure did seem to enjoy each other – or she was lacking in the friendship department cause every other sentence was Harry this and Harry that. I was assured they were just friends.  Yeah – and the hairs slowing taking over my temples are blonde, not gray.

The way I found out about this relationship was via a family group text.

Michelle shared a funny photo with the fam and bantering ensued.  At the end of the string of texts, coming from three different cities and four different people, DJ wrote: BTW (By The Way for my mom and dad) – Harry and I are dating.

I called immediately.  She did not pick up.  Probably in class or something, right?

Michelle wrote back – you serious?

Stephanie chimed in:  Yes!  She is.  She called and told me last week.

There are three problems here:

  1. This had been going on for several weeks, at least, and I was just finding out
  2. DJ told Stephanie before she told me

AND…

3.  Stephanie didn’t call and tell me the news (she swears she was sworn to secrecy but I thought better of her).

I’m good with all this – actually makes me very happy.  I’m just having to get used to all this going on without my knowledge.

One day I asked Stephanie what she did the night before.  She replied, “I went to Target.”  I do believe that is true.  However, her sister also innocently told me she saw a picture of Steph on her Instagram story at a party that same night.

Maybe the party was at Target…

And I can’t even guess what else is going on with these five offspring of ours.  Julie’s son is holed up in Athens, GA, or so he says.  One weekend he’s at a Fraternity party in Alabama, the next a sorority party in Memphis and the next spring break in Cancun.

Next time Julie and I want to get away, we’re just gonna tell them all “We’re going to Target.”  That’ll teach them!

Maybe it’s best I don’t know all that’s going on.  I like my peaceful life – sitting around watching DVR’d 60 Minute episodes thinking my kids are doing the same.  Ahhh – the joy of not knowing.

 

Little Bitty Neck

Bruce Ham Head Shot

2014, five full years ago!

Bruce Ham Head Shot, 2-19

Little Neck, Today

About every five years, our marketing department decides that the leadership team at work needs new head shots.  These are pictures of your head – just your head – that you use for professional purposes.  Like when I speak at a conference, I’m often asked to send a “head shot” so I forward my pic.

 

I am fairly happy with my 2014 headshot.  I look young.  I’m not sure why we’d want to alter that.

My boss has looked the same for the past twenty years.  You could toss his past five headshots into a basket and not know which came first.  Me, not so much.  There is a definitive difference between late forties and mid-fifties.

I am compliant, so I went onto the Signup Genius to choose the time to meet with the photographer.  When my time came, I meandered unexcitedly to the small conference room where they had set up shop.  The email calling for new pics informed us that there would be a makeup/hair stylist to help us look our best.

I wondered why.  I mean, we’re the Y.  Aren’t we supposed to look recreational?  Besides, there are only like two employees at our corporate office who have ever worn makeup, and I don’t count because it was when I was in a play.

I showed up promptly at 11:20 AM.  I was allotted 15 minutes.  A VP of Marketing was ahead of me.  She looked great – wearing her Sunday best.

I knew there was little anyone could do with the hair.  And I declined the makeup.

She insisted, “I just want to take the sheen off of your forehead.”

I didn’t know my forehead had a sheen!  All this time I’ve been walking around with a shiny forehead and no one told me.  How embarrassing.

She powdered me up.

She then pulled out lipstick, I reared back.  “You’re not putting that stuff on my lips,” I told the woman who was desperately trying to earn her keep.

Give me that mouth, she argued.

I think she got paid by the lip.

When I realized she was essentially putting fancy Chapstick on me, I acquiesced.  There was no color, although I thought I saw a sparkle on the end of the tube.

A friend of mine was helping to coordinate us bums so I asked her to crack some jokes so that I would look happy.  I have a tendency for the fixed pose with a fake smile.  She began to taunt me, which is not unusual for this co-worker.  I laughed and our time was over.

When I received the proof of my pic, I quickly opened my last one taken a half a decade or so earlier.  It was sad really.  The gray protruding from my temples today.  The wrinkles more wrinkly in 2019.  I should have been more lenient on my makeup friend.  Perhaps she could have made this look better.

That night I showed the photo to Michelle.  She sent the pic to her sisters.

DJ responded immediately with a haha text thought bubble.

That didn’t make me feel great.  Haha?  Shouldn’t that be reserved for a hilarious joke??

Michelle then remarked, “Dad looks very happy!!!!!!!!!”

Why so many explanation marks??????  Do I not usually look that happy?

Stephanie replied, He does look happy.  Followed by, His neck looks so small.

Seriously?  Like who wants a frickin’ enormous neck?  It just normal.  Just a normal neck.  On the slightly thin side, but just a neck that’s working hard to hold up a big shiny forehead apparently and two slightly glittered lips.

After that exchange I was worried a bit about my headshot.  Until the Marketing Director sent us links to all of the headshots.  I’ll have to confess, I opened them all just out of curiosity.  And when I saw my good friend’s pic, I felt much better about mine.

Where did she go?

beaker

On Saturday I went to get my hair cut.  Although I want my hair to look good, I don’t invest in it.  I use $1.79 Suave shampoo.  I get my hair cut about every two months.  I get it cut short.  I let it grow long.  Then I pay $15 to have it pruned again.

I have Supercuts saved in my contacts so I can call about 15 minutes before I arrive.  That way when I walk in the door, I get to jump in front of the big haired dudes sitting on the purple benches who got there before me but hadn’t called in advance.  I LOVE that feeling.  I feel so… special.

This time, right when I walked in, my stylist, I use that term loosely ‘cause there ain’t that much style, called me to the chair.  She was a short, plump woman with long, thick, curly blonde hair.  She wrapped my body in a black, plastic cover and tucked a dryer sheet looking piece of cloth around my skinny little neck to keep the clippings out of my shirt.

She began her work.  A number 5 clipper guard in the back of my head, a number 6 on sides.  The top is hacked with scissors.  As she was nearing the end of the clipper stage of my cut, she abruptly left the room.

“Excuse me,” she said.

She walked quickly to the back of the salon and disappeared.  I thought it odd but assumed she had a little stomach issue or something.

I waited.  After 8 or 9 minutes, I grew tired of looking at myself in the mirror and pulled out my phone.

After 12 or so minutes, I’d glanced through my emails and had begun to wonder if my friend was OK.  What if she’s out cold in the break room?  I wondered.  What if she’s had a medical emergency?  What if she had grown weary of giving haircuts and had left for the Caribbean?

I looked at my head.  My hair had been sheered with the trimmers three quarters up my entire skull.  The top was the exact same length as when I’d walked into the place thirty minutes before.  I looked like Beaker from the Muppets.  If she didn’t come back, would another employee finish the job?  Would I have to walk out with a bowl cut?  Would there be another salon open on a Saturday afternoon that could fix this issue?

At around 15 minutes another staff member disappeared into the breakroom.  It had become noticeable to all that she might not return.

I glanced around nervously concerned for her (and for me).

At 18 minutes she appeared, her face was blanched.

I wasn’t sure if I should say something, but it was obvious that I noticed she was gone.

“Are you OK?” I tentatively asked.

“Un.  It’s hot in here isn’t it?” she responded.

“Yeah.  Sort of.”  There was a temperature change that day and the heater seemed to still think it was 24 degrees outside.

Then she began to explain.  “Well I’m wearing a wig.  It’s squeezing my head and heating me up!  I bet I’m 15 degrees hotter than you.  I was about to pass out.  I had to go take that thing off for a little while.  Get some blood movin’ up there.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say.  I didn’t know a wig could do that.  In fact, I had no idea she was wearing a wig!  I had not seen a wig since I opened my grandmother’s closet in 1972 and a Styrofoam head with blonde hair fell down and nearly made me wet my pants.

I’m not sure what I said to the woman after she confessed that her hair wasn’t real.  I think I came up with something like, “Well.  I’m glad you got that worked out.”

I left her a big tip and told her maybe she should take the rest of the day off.  Or maybe, just remove the wig.  I mean, she’s a cosmetologist.  I saw her credentials hanging at her booth.  Couldn’t she fix her real hair?

Oh My Aching Back

I’ve done it reaching for toilet paper.  This time it was bending down to pick up a cup – a very light, unheavy, glass half full of water.  I pulled my lower back out on New Year’s Eve morning helping Julie straighten up for the cleaning ladies who showed up unexpectedly.

That begs the question, “Why do we cleanup for the cleaning ladies?”  I don’t do any prep work for the yardman.  Well, if I had a yardman I’m certain I wouldn’t pre-mow.

There is a guy at work who has a ton of back pain.  I have jabbed about it – referring to him as Broken Back Boy.  I will not do that again.  This is not funny.  Not funny AT ALL.

It has been a week, and I can just now wipe myself without excruciating pain.

You know you’re in a bad spot when…

IT HURTS LIKE HELL TO WIPE YOUR BUTT!

It is the little things I take for granted.

Who knew putting your socks on could be such a challenge.  Julie did it the first day, but then she had to go back to her house.  Then it was up to me.  I’d bend over as far as I could, hold the very edge of the sock with my longest fingers and then toss the sock toward my big toe in the hopes I’d get some traction so I could pull back into my comfort zone and get those little boogers up my calves.  It was a loafer kind of week.  Tying was out of the question.

Thank goodness I’m a slight guy.  At night I’d gently lie on the edge of the bed, then take my left hand, grab the side of my boxers and drag my body toward the middle of my Mattress Firm, which it ends up is not even that firm.  The nightstand was my grip to get out the next day.  I didn’t even consider a mid night bathroom run.  OUT OF THE QUESTION.

My children are ribbing me, mocking me when they walk past in a bent position with their hand on their back yelling strings of sentences with silences to represent the bleeping out of curse words.

A lady at work left a walker in my office.  I tried to use it but it was too short.

I’ve been to a chiropractor three times.  I got a therapeutic massage.  My MD gave me a muscle relaxer.  I’ve taken more ibuprofen than there are stars in the sky.  And my back is still as tight as a tic.

Is this what old looks like?  Will this happen more often?  Are other things going to go out of whack?

No.  That can’t be the case.  I’m only 53.  This must be a fluke.

 

 

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