You know how men are. Even men know how men are, though we may be somewhat reluctant to ‘fess up to it.
It’s that macho thing. Especially when we’re young. You know invincible, bulletproof and sometimes, even invisible. Or so we think.
As for pain… “Shucks, ma’am, it don’t hurt none,” he said as his nearly severed arm dangled by a skin flap.
But, dang it, we age. Get older. Gray hair. No Grecian Formula for me. I earned every one of those suckers.
As men get somewhere near maturity, say in their early 40s, they may reach the point where they admit having aches, pains and weaknesses.
At age 30, I remember getting an affliction that I thought represented enough wear, tear and abuse (by men particularly) on the body that I must be “GETTING OLD!” Double gasp!
Dr. Fred Beavers in Richmond broke the news to me that I had (heavens to murgatroid) those “H” things. Yeah, I know, it’s a family newspaper, but I’m being as circumspect as possible.
Okay, so I said to myself, “Self, you work hard and put a lot of stress on your mind and body, so these kinds of things are bound to happen. You just didn’t expect them when you were still, ahem, young and dashing.”
However, as the vagaries of time and age began to take their toll on my already non-Apollonic body, I began to be more resigned to afflictions and determined to handle whatever fate tossed in my direction.
“Be a trooper!” “Forward, ho!” “Charge!”
Here came the forties. The realities of aging really began to set in. A doctor told me that the biggest and baddest of those Ritis boys, Arthur, had moved in and was going to be a leeching !@#$%^&* resident of my still somewhat trim body.
Little did I know that the lithe look would give way, too. Short breath and less stamina began to be regulars in adaptation to the aging process. Fat didn’t help afflicted joints either.
Ol’ Arthur announced in no uncertain terms that I’d better make room because he was taking up permanent residence and was doing nothing to earn his keep. Instead he was adding a frequent visit to EVERY joint in my aging body. It started with the shoulders, announcing itself forcefully in crowded seating conditions in a live theater production.
My mother’s farm girl advice to her young son was to eat a lot — “heavy” people can ward off illness easier (because they have more resistance “stored up” than skinny folks). That’s what she said.
Well, she didn’t have to carry all that extra weight around on her small-boned frame.
My knees, which had undergone some abuse in high school football, screeched at carrying those additional pounds.
Eventually, common sense and pain won out and dieting reduced a lot of that poundage. But, it is difficult to stay out of the cookie jar or the freezer where the greatest sweet challenge resides….mmm! Ice cream! I scream for it.
Never the less, Arthur continued waging his invasions. Particularly bothersome was the fact that, after the shoulders, the hands thought THEY were the Pearl Harbor of the war. Along with swollen joints, trigger finger raised its ugly, well, finger.
A guy who makes his living sitting at a keyboard and writing doesn’t need a trigger finger. And, to make things worse, the most afflicted digit is, as Roy D. Mercer would phrase it, “the naughty finger” of the left hand.
Trigger finger has brought about a (ugh!) shot in that middle finger on the left hand. I hate needles but I hate pain more. The doc put the needle in the part of the joint that you feel in the palm of your hand. It relieved the pain.
So, a great deal of the time, I walk around with this elasticized black fabric splint on that digit. There’s a “pad” extension down toward the palm from that digit it covers the joint of that finger, thus calling attention to the “naughty finger.”
It IS a medical condition. It is NOT intended to be naughty.
Really.
Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor-publisher of more than 50 years experience.
