2008 Woodie Awards
Humor: Pass me the ibuprofen
Danny Harry
Issue date: 3/30/05 Section: Opinion
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A piercing pain resonates through my shoulder. While standing earlier in the day, my arm just started hurting. It might be oldageitis, like a similar case over Spring Break. My wife and I decided to go roller skating, and I hoped to spend more time upright than cleaning the floors with my butt.
"I'll be doing fine until a four year old passes me," I told Heidi on the drive to the rink. After lacing up the skates, I teetered out onto the hardwood floor and heard the fast paced clicks from the tiny skates of a boy as tall as my knees as he blurred by. "There's that four year old I was talking about," I said with a frown while slowly perfecting the Baby Step Shuffle around the rink. Though hobbling and weaving like both legs were bound in a cast up to my hips, I didn't have too many spills, until tiredness kicked in. Then each lap became an arm flailing fight for balance. My arms shot straight in the air, back arched, and heels clicked and rolled like a spastic tap dance routine until both feet shot forward. Nothing could save me but my butt. This is one instance where obesity could be beneficial to my health. I would have loved more rear padding. After thinking I broke my coccyx and a sprained wrist later, we called it a night.
Another case of oldageitis kicked in during a warm up for one of my weight training classes. After leading pushups, I slowly rose from the floor with a strained lower back muscle. "I feel so old," I later told Heidi. "Well, you're not in junior high anymore," she reminded me. True. In junior high I could have fallen off a building, landed on my head, and only been concerned with how my hair looked, certain the rest of the world thought I was dork. And this actually happened in my early teenage years. A friend was chasing me across Salmon's Main Street bridge, running after me with a broom like he was a medieval jousting knight, minus the horse. I leapt over railing onto a storage shed roof. He followed, stabbing at me with his mighty broom stick lance. I dodged it, took a step back, discovered the absence of roof, dropped head first six feet to the ground, and landed on my shoulders and neck. Lying still and crumpled on top of myself, embarrassment and a bruised ego were my only concerns. I don't even remember being sore from the fall. A young, indestructible teen can bounce back from anything, but not an old has-been pushing thirty. Now if I get out of bed too quickly, I'm sore for at least three days.
"I'll be doing fine until a four year old passes me," I told Heidi on the drive to the rink. After lacing up the skates, I teetered out onto the hardwood floor and heard the fast paced clicks from the tiny skates of a boy as tall as my knees as he blurred by. "There's that four year old I was talking about," I said with a frown while slowly perfecting the Baby Step Shuffle around the rink. Though hobbling and weaving like both legs were bound in a cast up to my hips, I didn't have too many spills, until tiredness kicked in. Then each lap became an arm flailing fight for balance. My arms shot straight in the air, back arched, and heels clicked and rolled like a spastic tap dance routine until both feet shot forward. Nothing could save me but my butt. This is one instance where obesity could be beneficial to my health. I would have loved more rear padding. After thinking I broke my coccyx and a sprained wrist later, we called it a night.
Another case of oldageitis kicked in during a warm up for one of my weight training classes. After leading pushups, I slowly rose from the floor with a strained lower back muscle. "I feel so old," I later told Heidi. "Well, you're not in junior high anymore," she reminded me. True. In junior high I could have fallen off a building, landed on my head, and only been concerned with how my hair looked, certain the rest of the world thought I was dork. And this actually happened in my early teenage years. A friend was chasing me across Salmon's Main Street bridge, running after me with a broom like he was a medieval jousting knight, minus the horse. I leapt over railing onto a storage shed roof. He followed, stabbing at me with his mighty broom stick lance. I dodged it, took a step back, discovered the absence of roof, dropped head first six feet to the ground, and landed on my shoulders and neck. Lying still and crumpled on top of myself, embarrassment and a bruised ego were my only concerns. I don't even remember being sore from the fall. A young, indestructible teen can bounce back from anything, but not an old has-been pushing thirty. Now if I get out of bed too quickly, I'm sore for at least three days.