Coming Apart At The Seams (Crumbling At The Hip)

George Strait obviously has never played volleyball.

The reason I say this is because in his song Troubadour, he croons the following: “I still feel twenty-five, most of the time.”

I wish I could claim the same thing, but I simply can’t. You see, I’ve just hit that eye-opening phase of life when, for the first time, you can look at a bent-over, wrinkled old man obliviously wandering through heavy traffic looking for his teeth and truly understand that someday, you will become that guy, although with probably less hair.

When you hit this phase of your life your body starts to randomly break down for no reason except to infuriate you, and it definitely doesn’t make you feel twenty-five. (Sorry, George!) For example, I was recently playing volleyball when my hip decided it was time to become injured. Now, I can totally understand an injury when you do something to deserve it, like running full speed into a brick wall or something. However, I was simply minding my own business when it happened.

At first I ignored it, like any true guy would. I was still operating under the Under 25 Philosophy, which states you have to ‘walk it off’ since it will just go away in a matter of minutes anyway.

But it did not just go away. Instead, it found a nice, relaxing hammock, along with a good book, and settled in for the long haul. After about three weeks of still being injured I began to wonder if I should go to the doctor, which is another sign you will someday become the Wandering Old Man. Still, I didn’t want to submit myself to health care, since I could already foresee what would happen if I did:

Me: My hip hurts.

Doctor (frowing): Keep an eye on it. Come back if it doesn’t get better. You can trust me, as I have many certificates on the wall that nobody ever reads. Also, that’ll be five-hundred dollars.

Me: D’oh!

Doctor: Say, when’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?

Me: Gotta go!! (I would then try to escape, but my hip would give out, leaving me stranded on the floor, my arms still pumping wildly. The doctor would laugh manically, his eyes now replaced by flashing dollar signs, as he knows there’s was no way I can escape.)

Anyway, just as I was about to give in and get some medical attention, my hip finally got better. Now I feel pretty good. However, the knowledge of what happened still continually hangs over me, laughing evily. I mean, it takes me 3 weeks to heal from an injury I didn’t even do anything to incur? What will happen when I do something that actually justifies being injured? (Right now I’m guessing I will crumble into dust.)

Now, before I get a bunch of comments like ‘Age is just a state of mind’ or ‘You’re only as old as you feel’ or ‘Your blog sucks!’ let me say one thing: I understand this, and deep down in my heart, I am still about 23. It’s just that I’ve realized I’ve got to be a bit more careful from here on out. Nothing much. Just a little more stretching here, a little less going all out while playing sports just to try to impress members of the opposite sex there. No big deal. You just play with the cards your dealt, even though they’re wrinkled, torn, and smell faintly like BENGAY. I mean, why tempt fate? It’s a marathon, after all, not a sprint.

Plus, I wouldn’t want to miss out on someday being that guy wandering in the street looking for my teeth, now would I?