Falling to pieces

In my mind, I am between 18 and 22. My body tells me otherwise, as I recover from the season finale of ball hockey in the men’s over 30 league.

My wife’s last words to me as I left the house were “don’t get hurt!” which loosely translates into, “I’m not interested in fielding any more late night calls from the emergency department”.

Yes, it’s true, we have had the following conversations:

“Where are you? Its one am.”

“I’m in emerg. I caught a skate and ran into the boards, but don’t worry, the doctor thinks my ribs are just bruised”. (Four broken ribs)

“Where are you?”

“I’m in emerg. Took a slapshot in the eye, but don’t worry, the specialist says…”

“Specialist! Jesus Christ…”

“Yeah they called him in from home. He says the eye will be fine.” (Lacerated cornea)

For dramatic effect, I cite the worst case scenarios of course. Generally, the inquisition is more limited to “why are you limping?” or “why were you in the half-pipe in the first place?”

This is inevitably followed by “I don’t think you’re supposed to mix advil and bourbon while you’re in the hot tub”.

Back to ball hockey. The floor is unforgivingly hard, the ball even more so and to top it off, there was a deluge of some sort of horrible precipitation bordering between freezing rain and sleet. (I took my touque off in the third period and instantly developed a level five ice cream headache)

All this leads to the back ache this morning. I was forced to delve into my underworld sources for pharmaceuticals.

“Hey man…does you wife still work for Pfizer? Does she have any of those sample packs of Robaxicet Platinum left?”

“No? Damn…”

“Hey man…remember when you did your back in? You got any of those T3’s left?”

“No? Damn…”

At this age, most of my acquaintances have some quality expired meds leftover from various vasectomy’s, mcl/acl surgery and migraine episodes. Tis a sad day when we progress from recreational chemistry to recuperation. (I’ve been told that one mean little kidney stone can waste a good morphine buzz.)

I ended up with a lowly 200 mg ibuprofen. No addictive properties, no caffeine, not even any side affects. It’s the Coors Light of pain medication.

And so the battle rages on. The 22 year old brain is a bit of a bugger. He tells the 42 year body, “buddy, everything’s fine…just give’er.” The 42 year old body, ever willing, dutifully continues to pay the price.

Anyway…gotta get some rest.

Sign up for indoor soccer is tomorrow.