Does it hurt when you do that? Then, don’t do that
It’s the knee this time.
Cranky knee syndrome, the doc said. Well, he actually said a bunch of words that ended in “-itis,” but he went to med school — while my expertise is limited to the virtual lessons gleaned from “Marcus Welby, M.D.” — so I translated the fancy-pants Latin into something that made sense to me.
Stretch it out a little, get out of the chair and move every now and then, apply some topical magical ointments, put a heat wrap on it ... and, above all, try not to make it worse.
Sure thing, doc … and thanks for not saying the knee required anything ending in “-urgery.”
You ever realize, by the way, that “Marcus Welby” is just a not-so clever take on “Make us be well”? No? Well, now you can’t NOT think of it any other way.
I said doctor, doctor ... Mr. M.D. ... I had no idea of when I tweaked the knee — tweaking being something that apparently you only do to knees and engines. As opposed to twerking, which involves the hips and would likely send me back to the doc … who would probably say something that ends in “-chmuck.”
A year ago, you might remember, it was the back. Weeks of physical therapy and performance art auditioning for the road company of “Question Mark: The Musical.”
Getting older, I’ve been assured, has its advantages. For one thing, another 25 years or so and I should come close to shooting my age on the golf course.
For another, being a human of a certain age — say, 8-under-par at Centennial — I don’t need any external prompting to follow that advice to “get out of the chair and move every now and then.”
Your time will come … you Gen-ednf of the alphabeters and -ennials.
The knee, so says the doc, will bound back into shape with time and patience.
I mean, the man has been keeping this collection of deteriorating parts together for more than 20 years … and he believes that “patience” was somehow mysteriously discovered among my other admirable traits.
I was thinking about age, and knees, this week when sitting in one of those marvelous theater chairs at Tinseltown … watching Hercule Poirot ferret out the killer/killers in “Death on the Nile.”
Ol’ Hercule had a lovely cane at his side — if somewhat obscured by his moustache — as he strolled the stairwells and decks of the S.S. Karnak with nary a limp in search, perhaps, of a clue hidden in a hermetically sealed envelope and kept in mayonnaise jar.
My knee throbbed a bit as he interrogated the fourth or fifth prime suspect in the case — I might have missed one as I got out of my chair and took a stroll myself — and wondered whether I could fashion such an elaborate adornment with such ease.
Unlikely, I’d have better luck with the moustache … which is to say, no luck at all.
Three hours later, the crime had been solved — or, Hercule would say, sol-ved — and we were headed back out into the cold, which my cranky knee greeted as though I had throws some “-itis” words in its face.
Tweak, it shouted … I’ll show you a tweak.
I’m pretty sure I saw some -chmuck say earlier that getting older has its advantages. Well, I think I saw it … my eyesight is somewhere between my knee and my back in terms of engine efficiency.
And don’t ask me about my feet. I mean that, don’t ask. And while you’re at it, the less said about my hearing, the better — particularly since there’s only a half-chance that I’ll hear you.
The point is … ummmm …
“Old age ain’t no place for sissies,” said Bette Davis, who not only was someone who would know, but also was among the four (or five) prime suspects when an earlier version of “Death on the Nile” was released back in ’78.
Hmmm, 78 … now that’s a score worth shooting for.
What’s left in working order of Mail Tribune columnist Robert Galvin can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org