It started with the hangovers that were completely out of proportion to the amount I had drunk the night before. Waking up with an aching head, reaching for the Panadol and thinking “this is not fair”, I’d curse myself for mixing the grape and the grain and lie to myself that I’d never drink again.
Then it was squinting at the specials board and not being able to read subtitles on TV. Before I could say “optician” he said, “read the bottom line for me please”, and I’m out the door with a script for a brand new pair of glasses.
Now the final indicator that I no longer inhabit the body of a young man has come along and, quite literally, knocked me off my feet.
A couple of weeks ago I did an injury to my back that had me off work for a week and required three trips to a chiropractor/acupuncturist.
This witchdoctor, with his pins and pictures of skeletons on his walls, had me up on the table with my pants and my dignity down without even a hint of foreplay. (Don’t I get a massage?) Crack, crack, crack he goes on my spine while I lie there trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
And what did I do to myself that I needed this kind of extreme treatment? Absolutely nothing! And that’s the sad and sorry truth. I probably wouldn’t mind so much if I’d been doing some extreme mountain biking, or parachuting off a high cliff, or even had a bad case of shagger’s back. But no, the reality is so much more senior citizen. I took part in a social bike ride, organised by a local Landcare group. We stopped for tea and cakes at the halfway point and I felt a bit of a twinge in my lower back as I got off the bike, but didn’t think too much of it at the time. By the time I finished the ride it was worse, and later that day I could barely move.
Lying there on my back, dosed up to the eyeballs on painkillers, morbid thoughts of mortality filled my head. I started to wonder whether a nagging back injury would be part of my life for the rest of my days and whether my best years were behind me.
Well it seems that reports of my imminent death were widely exaggerated, but it’s made me realise that on the great bell curve of life, I probably am over-the-top and sliding irrevocably towards senility and lawn bowls.
Maybe it’s time for a shandy.
Then it was squinting at the specials board and not being able to read subtitles on TV. Before I could say “optician” he said, “read the bottom line for me please”, and I’m out the door with a script for a brand new pair of glasses.
Now the final indicator that I no longer inhabit the body of a young man has come along and, quite literally, knocked me off my feet.
A couple of weeks ago I did an injury to my back that had me off work for a week and required three trips to a chiropractor/acupuncturist.
This witchdoctor, with his pins and pictures of skeletons on his walls, had me up on the table with my pants and my dignity down without even a hint of foreplay. (Don’t I get a massage?) Crack, crack, crack he goes on my spine while I lie there trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
And what did I do to myself that I needed this kind of extreme treatment? Absolutely nothing! And that’s the sad and sorry truth. I probably wouldn’t mind so much if I’d been doing some extreme mountain biking, or parachuting off a high cliff, or even had a bad case of shagger’s back. But no, the reality is so much more senior citizen. I took part in a social bike ride, organised by a local Landcare group. We stopped for tea and cakes at the halfway point and I felt a bit of a twinge in my lower back as I got off the bike, but didn’t think too much of it at the time. By the time I finished the ride it was worse, and later that day I could barely move.
Lying there on my back, dosed up to the eyeballs on painkillers, morbid thoughts of mortality filled my head. I started to wonder whether a nagging back injury would be part of my life for the rest of my days and whether my best years were behind me.
Well it seems that reports of my imminent death were widely exaggerated, but it’s made me realise that on the great bell curve of life, I probably am over-the-top and sliding irrevocably towards senility and lawn bowls.
Maybe it’s time for a shandy.
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