What are you trying to tell me universe? I’m not understanding the mixed signals. Because a little over a week ago I went out and ran 12 miles. Twelve miles! And it felt great. Like a young man. And then yesterday, unloading groceries at the store I bent over to pick up something and pinched a nerve down near my … ahem … buttocks. Nearly doubled over from the pain. Considered calling 911. Considered calling for one of those motorized scooters. Felt NOT like a young man.
What’s the message here? I’m not getting it.
Maybe it was just a fluke. I pushed my cart into an empty cashier aisle. I hate empty aisles. You feel so rushed — panicked even — to get your food out of the cart. You don’t want the cashier to stare at you like you’re the reason she can’t go on break or win the lottery or something that doesn’t involve waiting on you.
I was throwing things on the fast-moving conveyor as fast as I could when I dropped one of my reusable shopping bags. To make matters worse, the shopping cart rolled over the bag and I had to lift it up to free it when …
SHAZAM!
A bolt of lightning bit me somewhere between my hip and the aforementioned buttock.
I thought I had been shot, the pain was so intense. “I’m too young to die,” I think I screamed out.
But I didn’t feel young as I tried to straighten up and collect myself, rubbing ye olde creaky bones. Or creaky nerves. The cashier was looking at me like she thought she might need to call for backup.
“It’s not a good sign if you get injured unloading groceries,” my wife said when I told her and my daughter about the episode at dinner.
I shifted in my seat, causing another fiery lightning bolt to race through my nerves. I squeaked in pain.
“Do you want me to laugh or have sympathy?” my daughter asked. “Because I don’t want you to think I’m an uncaring child.”
“It’s fine,” I told her, grimacing. “You can laugh. Better to laugh than cry.”
Which has always been my mantra. And how I plan to deal with this “not young man” disease, if that is what I’ve fallen victim to. Or maybe I’ll just chalk it up to bad shopping posture or faulty cart design when I get out on my next long run. Right after this infernal pain goes away. (Ouch! It hurts just to type.)
Brian Thompson’s column is one of three finalists in this year’s National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest in the humor category. He will find what place he won in June.