It’s crazy to me how easily I can injure myself these days. I mean, it shouldn’t be crazy—I’m getting older—but I forget that fact far too often.
Yesterday was one of those times. It was just past five, and my pups were letting me know it was supper time. Naturally, being the devoted servant that I am to my kind beasts, I had to comply. Maybe it was the little whimpers from my tiny dog, but I felt this urgency, like something terrible would happen if I didn’t get their food ready right away.
I grabbed the pan with their meal—a concoction I knew would drive them wild. Shrimp, potatoes, a bit of rice, the good stuff, as I like to call it. The smell hit the room and, as expected, they went absolutely nuts.
On my way to the stairs, I decided to “be a man” and move (its really lift out of the way) the heavy glass door that keeps them contained, with just one arm. The door is no joke—it’s heavy—but in my usual bout of overconfidence I thought, I can do it. So I did.
My wife looked impressed, which of course made me grin. I still got it, I thought. I used to do weight lifting in my prime, and maybe there’s still a little fire left in the ashes.
Fast forward to around 10 p.m. I was at my computer, coding away, trying to get resumable uploads working. It’s part of the 
This morning I woke up basically a one-armed man. I can barely move my right arm. I doubt I’ll be lifting hat glass door again anytime soon. Not worth the risk.
So, like an aging fool, I’ll be heading to the pharmacy for something to dull the pain. I won’t see a doctor yet—but if I do, I can already picture the conversation.
“Why would you do that?” she’d ask.
And my answer would be simple:
“I’m an idiot.”
MenO