yet another bootleg column, this one the next installment of a story that matters, or so i hope. The knee news is not keen. Faithful readers might recall that last week, I confessed to showing my age with a brazen attempt to deny the obvious and that I had sort of convinced myself that my limping would be a temporary, if embarrassingly obvious, indication that none of us is getting any younger. But pain – like love or hate – is completely impossible to ignore without serious medication and, to quote a fine vintage blues tune recorded by Humble Pie, “I don’t need no doctor.” Or so I thought. Folks, here’s the plain unvarnished truth: My left knee is damaged and I don’t think it’s something that rest and lager is going to cure. Nope, this time around, my 6-5 frame supporting 182 pounds is screaming for help and the sad fact is that I can’t possibly be able to afford a trip to the doctor’s office. For one thing, my 1991 Honda Civic hasn’t run since last summer and, for another, I don’t actually think there’s anything a physician can say – aside from something like, “You’ll need a complete battery of tests and you will be in debt forever” – other than, “Hey, man, you shouldn’t have gone paddle boarding with kids half your age. What were you thinking: you were 18, not 58?” And I’m not ready for that scene, thank you very much. I’ll just get used to the idea that, from this point on in my life, every step I take will be reminder of that line from “Casablanca.” It’s after Bogie’s been questioned about why he fled to Morocco and says, “For the waters.” When told that he’s been living in a desert, he deadpans, “I was misinformed.” Me, too. Growing up was one thing I knew I could rebel against, but getting old ... wow, this thing is serious and I’m running out of jokes to ease the pain. As you know, I specialize in idealizing a past that may or may not have existed precisely the way I describe: Poetic license, perhaps, or maybe just a yearning to turn a simple slow dance with the prettiest girl at the eighth-grade farewell into something far more licentious. And eminently more entertaining. Still, I refuse to give in to the temptation to stick to the precise facts in this space, as if cops were questioning me for something I hadn’t done. Holster those sidearms, boys ... I’m a simple storyteller. No danger to anyone. BUT DANGER IS EVERYWHERE these days, isn’t it? Or is that merely what they want us to think? And who are “they,” anyway? Who gave them any power? Ahh ... it’s too much work to fight against fair play. The world is open to interpretation and my advice to shrug your shoulders, unless it’s painful. Who knew a body could break down so profoundly, so quickly? I suppose I knew it all along, but made a conscious choice to ignore the warning signs. The last time I was in a gym was probably back in the late Eighties when I was a sports writer and had to file a story about a high school basketball game. Exercise isn’t very important to me, though I enjoy hiking and biking, swimming and, despite my infirmity, paddle boarding, not to mention just taking a simple walk around the neighborhood when everyone’s tucked and I have the 3 a.m. harvest moon to myself. I don’t do cardio. I listen to a transistor radio. I don’t use a treadmill. I do exercise my writing skill. A dollop of arrogance doused with a healthy dose of ignorance, my physical condition is about what you’d expect. I can run and jump, sort of, and can hold my own in whatever game you choose, as long it’s not something crazy like a triathlon. Oh, and one more thing. I won’t even consider shooting a gun, so you’ll win at target practice, if that’s what you want to call it. When I was back there in parochial school, one of the first things the nuns beat into us was the belief that our bodies were Temples of the Lord and that sinning defiled them. “Um, Sister Adolph er, I mean, Adele,” I asked, raising my hand, “if I severely sprain my ankle carrying a casket down the icy steps outside the church, just being a good altar boy, have I defiled my body?” You had to love being a smart-mouthed 10-year-old, even if the price you paid was a knuckle-smack with a three-foot steel yardstick and a warning about everlasting hellfire. It gave a guy a reason to get up every morning, even if he slept in and missed the bus more often than not. I HAVE A FEELING that nuns are far more compassionate these days, since there seem to be far fewer of them. I suppose it’s like any low-paying vocation in that bosses want to placate the public, even if it humiliates the slave-wage employee. But I’ve always liked nuns, actually, the way they tolerated no rebellion until the moment they realized that shaming a young man for expressing affection for a young lady – in the form of an offered and accepted ID bracelet – wasn’t very, well, Christian. Back then, we were all into that kind of thing. You know, breaking down walls, storming the barricades. Obviously, I wasn’t in Grant Park in the summer of 1968, when the police bloodied peaceful demonstrators exercising their right to free speech. Heck, I was 13 years old. I was playing Pony League baseball and getting ready to lurch from private into public school, the weirdness of junior high only a vague, tingly fear. But I knew I didn’t like cops beating on kids. A few years later, when I was 15, four students got shot dead at Kent State, about 45 miles from our family’s home. Those folks never got a chance to grow old and that brings me back to reality when I start to feel sorry for myself having to deal with a swollen and sore left knee. “Big effing deal,” I tell myself. “You’ve got no right to whine. Grow the eff up!” And, as usual, I’m right. You see, none of us can walk in another’s shoes. About all we can do is measure our foot size against theirs and, well, walk on. Sure, I can’t climb stairs very well and I sleep poorly, but I’ll deal with it. That’s all I – or you – can do. I’m older than I was yesterday, but younger than I’ll be tomorrow. That has to be a line from a song, but I can’t recall it and it’s no fair Googling when I sit down to share thoughts with you. I either remember that Franklin Pierce was the 14th president or I don’t. If I can’t bring back the connection between The Herd and Humble Pie – it was Peter Frampton – then I have no business quoting “I Don’t Need No Doctor.” The nuns actually had it right. For once. You will be punished when someone else thinks you’ve messed up. Try to stay healthy in all ways, including keeping your sense of humor intact. That’s another thing “they” can’t stand. So, let’s limp along, OK? Sharing a secret smile. Mike Dewey can be reached at CarolinamikeD@aol or 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. Check out his Facebook page, which he strives to keep entertaining. Trust him, you won’t be able to tell that he’s limping ... and nuns are always welcome, too.
Posted on: Tue, 08 Oct 2013 03:01:12 +0000
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