Shortly before today’s five-mile hiking regimen, I applied a new (for me) pain medication, bathing my midsection from navel to right hip. Typically, I apply Aspercreme, but today I inaugurated the stronger, bolder pain treatment medication to my abdominal paunch.
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A brief explanation of my belly’s epidemiology is in order. Seven months ago, I moved my 101-year-old father’s couch, allowing him easier accessibility. I did it the “easy” way. Why bother moving the heavy end table before lifting the couch? Instead, my contorted right-arm-reaching-over-left-shoulder movement resembled that of a geriatric ballerina, hands groping for the little wooden block that had slid out of place, while simultaneously lifting up the entire end of the couch.
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The damage was done. X-rays, an MRI, weeks of physical therapy, a growing relationship with my neurologist and two epidural injections have all served to accomplish—exactly nothing. Tingling, numbness and pain have been my companions for these seven months, including the aforementioned abdominal discomfort, in which the nerve endings feel like they have been dissected and laid upon my belly. Aspercreme touches the pain just a little; today’s new salve would surely provide an improvement.
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So out the door I jaunted, anointed with my newly-acquired pain retardant. Half a mile later, I recognized the severity of my folly—my belly was aflame. Imagine an open wound into which you pour liquefied chili pepper. The active ingredient of my so-called salve, I soon discovered, is a chemical drawn from chili peppers.
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I pride myself in believing there is not a lot of retreat in me. The next 4-1/2 miles I walked aflame, throbbing, and desperate for a change of underwear, the circumnavigating elastic waistband rubbing and re-rubbing the blazing cream into my seared flesh.
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Trousers now loosened, my crimson belly reminds me that all ointments are not created equally. And like friendship, the mild-mannered salve of a trusted comrade can be a far better companion than a flamboyant acquaintance of uncertain promise.
Month: March 2019
Airbags
There’s no good time to have a belt explode. The sudden unhinging of my tightly-hitched pants could initiate rapid decompression, hurtling leather, zippers and buckle components into my gut, and endangering innocent passersby.
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Similarly, no excuse exists for the current automotive scandal—malfunctioning, exploding safety airbags. The near-universal Takata airbag safety recall is the latest water cooler topic. “Have you had yours done yet?” as if the subject were fingernail polish or hair colorizing.
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Today was my airbag replacement day. My red-inked “Urgent Safety Recall” notice noted threats of metal fragments injuring the car’s occupants, in exploding pants-belt style. Today’s service chore was aggravated by my previous encounter with this dealership, when I still grieved the loss of our beloved RAV4. When its transmission, transfer case and differentials simultaneously went to Glory, there was no choice.
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A perky, used 4Runner on the dealership lot had beckoned me. Soon enough, the sales vultures gathered, bedecked in logo-embroidered shirts. Their task was to avoid the subject of price and corral me into the dealership showroom, the inner sanctum—the Holy Place. The Showroom Bishop awaited me, white pressed dress shirt distinguishing him above the common sales priestly rabble, kindness and sympathy oozing.
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“How much for the car?” I inquired, forgetting that this question was the unpardonable sin. The Bishop started his slow “monthly payment” waltz: 48 months, 60 months, 72 months. He could work out my redemption.
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I would have none of it. The waltz devolved to a bitter note, me with extended index finger, performing the out-the-showroom-door shuffle. Incensed, the Bishop’s face reddened as he followed, to ensure I didn’t “key” any vehicles on my way out.
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Now, three of us stare at the TV in the dealership service waiting room, anticipating our rides home. We sip the complimentary coffee and price the tires displayed on the wall.
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And I’ll dodge the Showroom Bishop on the way out.