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I wasn't sure I was ready to dust off my Pogo Stick and jump rope. After all, I had just had Rotator Cuff surgery in December.
But I listed that skill on my audition sheet for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. If I get cast it will undoubtedly be because of my Pogo Stick prowess.
Certainly not because of my vocals.
On top of that I had to open my big fat mouth to Keela. Now, apparently, I'm performing at a United Way talent show at work.
I wasn't even sure I could still do it. My friend George told me that if I 'used to could' jump rope on a Pogo Stick', I probably could still do it.
That's easy for him to say.
I told Dave about my conundrum and he flat out told me that I was getting too old for such nonsense.
"What?" I was appalled and insulted. "I used to be really good at it."
George's voice echoed in my head. I used to could jump rope on a Pogo Stick.
What if my jump rope Pogo Sticking days were over?
There was only one way to tell. I grabbed my Pogo Stick from the closet and headed through the kitchen.
"What if you get hurt?" Dave asked.
"What could possibly happen?" I responded. I was really starting to get annoyed with him. I opened the back door, Pogo Stick in hand, ready to take the leap.
Seriously. How could I get hurt jump roping on a Pogo Stick? I just had to make sure I maintained sufficient height so the jump rope didn't catch on the bottom of the Pogo Stick.
Because, of course, if that happened, the jump rope would pull the Pogo Stick backward, which would launch me forward. And cause me to land on my face. On the driveway. Re-injuring my shoulder. Or breaking my wrist. Or my neck. And I'd have to call to Dave for help.
"Do you have your button?" Dave hollered to me.
I reopened the door. "What????"
"Your I've fallen and I can't get up button....do you have it?"
"You are hysterical. Not." I slammed the door.
I looked at my Pogo Stick. It had never let me down. Not when I was performing at that Gong show in the '80s. Not when I did my shtick at Kimmy's Kindergarten class in 1993. And certainly not in front of sold-out audiences at 15 damn performances of Gypsy seven years ago.
I picked up my jump rope and rested it on my shoulders. I climbed aboard my trusty Pogo Stick and began to hop. Higher and higher. I used my knees to hold the Pogo Stick upright, grabbed the jump rope and began to swing it.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
That's enough.
I dismounted and parked my Pogo Stick, resting the jump rope over the handle.
I limped into the house screaming, "DAVE!!!! HELP! I NEED ICE! AND BAND AIDS. LOTS OF THEM."
Dave raised his eyebrow.
"And wine."
I had something to celebrate.
Ever since my Rotator Cuff surgery I've had the pleasure pain of participating in Physical Therapy. My PT Therapist, let's call him "Igor", is a great guy who genuinely wants me to get back to 100%.
However, his empathy for my low pain threshold, that is scientifically linked to my red hair and left-handedness, seems a bit insincere. I get the sense that he thinks I'm a bit on the whiny side.
Which I just don't get. I don't whine that much. (For a debilitated left-handed redhead.)
We start each treatment with arm swings. I bend over at the waist and place my right arm on the bed and let the injred arm hang limply. Then I sway my hips back and forth, which kick-starts my left arm moving in a circle. 20 times clockwise. 20 times counterclockwise.
As a side note, Dave walked into the bathroom yesterday while I was doing my arm swings. He stopped in his tracks, turned around and exited. I heard him tell the dog, "Kevin. Don't go in there. Your mother's doing something deviant."
The worst part of PT is when Igor moves my arm FOR me. I lie on the bed as he slowly moves my arm up and down.
Like a damn railroad crossing arm.
And he forces it to go a bit higher each time. It's called "Passive Range of Motion."
I noted a positive correlation between the intensity of my pain and my level of concentration on what Igor is doing to my poor arm. The more I focus, the more it hurts.
Thus, Verbal Diarrhea rears its ugly head.
Each time Igor begins the Passive Range of Motion I begin my monologue. Which has evolved into the random history of my life.
And it works! The more I babble the less pain I feel.
"Igor, did I ever tell you about the time I suggested Linda dry her hair using the Gold's Gym hand dryer? OMG it gave her the biggest dread lock I have ever seen. It was hysteric YOWZA, IGOR YOU'RE KILLING ME So once when I was going to a Bill's game I made a sign out of a sheet that said, 'Conrad you can hold me if you want. I'll even let you score'. I hung it right in the end zone. My Mom was so mad at me JUDAS CHRISTMAS IN JULY WHAT ARE YOU DOING IGOR? Did you like macaroni and cheese when you were a kid? I used to put hot dogs in my kids Mac 'N Cheese to make it even less healthy FOR CRYING IN THE BEER IGOR I AM NOT GUMBY! STOP! You know one time I did an experiment when I tried to start a pair of Dave's underwear on fire on the driveway using a Barbie roller blade. It didn't work. Turns out that what I thought was hairspray was dry shampoo. Imagine that! HOLY STINKIN' COW, IGOR! HOW MUCH LONGER? Did you ever cook a turkey, Igor? There's a scene in Heck the Dolls with Chardonnay where Becky's cooking her first turkey and she thought the turkey neck was a penis. And then her husband wants a sandwich so she sticks the neck between 2 pieces of bread and gives it to him. And hs says it's great and that he loves the texture of the meat. Igor? Where'd you go?"
I hadn't even noticed that Igor had walked away and was writing something in his notebook.
"There you are, Igor! We're done already? Wow. That wasn't so bad."
I'm not sure what he was writing in his notebook. I would hope he'd be entering notes about the amazing progress I've made.
And not a referral for a mental health professional.
Because I don't need one.
I have Igor.
Time for an update on my recovery from that lil' ole Rotator Cuff surgery I had last week.
Over the past 211 hours (but who's counting) my arm has been held captive by a very tight papoose sling. I have a love/hate relationship with that damn sling.
I hate it 99.99% of the time.
When I'm brave enough to remove the sling for a wardrobe change, my arm feels as if 2 million alien chinchilla are gnawing at it.
My only relief is returning said arm to the sling. Which is when when I love my sling. (The technical term for this phenomenon is "Sling Stockholm Syndrome".)
Speaking of wardrobe, many would consider mine these days to be a fashion "don't". But it's actually more like a fashion HELL NO, DON'T YOU DARE.
I wear a long sleeved buttoned up PJ shirt under the sling. And pull-up pants. That don't necessarily have to match.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to put on jeans but could not pull up the zipper nor fasten them one-handed.
It was quite the scene.
It should be noted that I have not applied deodorant to my left arm pit for 9 days. I suspect that is why Dave and Kevin can most often be found seated to my right. Or in another room.
On a positive note, I have learned how to eat with my right hand. Typically 82% of the food ends up in my mouth. Four percent lands on my face, 2% in my hair and the rest is, unfortunately, destined for my shirt, and contributes to the need for a wardrobe change.
I entertain myself during the day by deleting junk mail from my in-box. The rest of the time I am either reading, binge watching NetFlix, or shopping online.
Dave thinks this surgery has saved us a fortune in shopping expenses. Wait till he sees my Discover card bill. Which brings me to my scathingly brilliant idea for a revision to ObamaCare: allow me to use my Health Savings Account card for surgical recovery shopping. (Feel free to use this idea, Donald.)
Dave and I go on one "special" outing each day. Yesterday's trip to the Dollar Tree was just too darn short! Although I am grateful to be getting out of the house, Dave has absolutely no appreciation for the Dollar Tree Customer Experience.
I was barely past the Rudolph Earrings and headed into the musical instrument aisle when I heard him beeping his car horn.
My surgeon, who has a very sick sense humor, prescribed what appeared to be Michael Jackson/Elvis drugs, but were really placebos. The only impact the meds had on me required additional pills, the first of which I affectionately called S2. (Stool softener) The second was Benedryl, to get rid of the rash that covered my torso. I threw a third into the mix: Chardonnay.
I can finally sleep through the night.
I have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon tomorrow. That's when I'll get the scoop about physical therapy. If he takes my arm out of the sling I cannot be held accountable for his well-being.
That's all the news I have to report. Except I'm still trying to pull my hair into a pony tail one handed. One of my neighbors did it for me last week. She said my hair was soft.
I must have had bananas for breakfast that day.
I have an idea, but I'll need Dave's cooperation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzJ7lf8mqBg
