I’ve come to appreciate this week that what the philosophers say is true. It is important to remember the small joys that we so often take for granted in life.
You know, the tiny moments like being able to run up a flight of stairs, of getting into a car or putting on the brakes or even tying one’s own shoes without assistance.
It’s the simple pleasure that comes from firmly grasping a crisp pair of pants, raising a bent leg and slipping ‘em on in the glorious acknowledgement that another day has dawned and you are blessed with the ability to become fully clothed and armored against it.
I long for the good old days.
You know, like the ones from last week.
As you have probably gathered by now, I threw my back out this weekend.
We can argue the folly of trying to hit out of heavy rough with a three-wood when one is forced to stand in a sand trap.
If people ask, I just tell them that I was injured on the competitive field of battle.
That sounds much nobler and much less stupid.
I long for the day when getting out of bed doesn’t require winces, grunts and the flapping of arms like some giant pregnant prehistoric bird.
I rapture at the thought of standing from a chair without firmly planting each foot on the ground, one after the other in a determined, widespread stance reminiscent of some grand pre-match Sumo tradition.
I beg for a time when I don’t get passed in the hallway at work three times each trip and having to offer some form of “No, really, I’m okay. You go ahead.�
The only silver lining in all of this is that I’m now able to do a really dead-on “Quasimodo.�
Is “The Hunchback of Notre Dame� going back to Broadway anytime soon?
I guess the philosophers are right.
Life can come at you when you least expect it.
That’s why for the first time ever I’m calling a chiropractor.
If Life is going to come at me again, I want to face it eye-to-eye.
I’d hate to be caught staring at my shoes.