Once upon a time, I was playing a round of golf and doing quite well after 8 holes. In my mind, this was going to be that score I have been waiting for all my life. Then, of course, the tee shot goes out of bounds and the penalty shot, which ended up in the deep rough, could not be found.
So, I am complaining to anyone who will listen within 100 metres. And complaining heavily with several glasses of whine.
My partner simply says, "This may mean a lot to you, but nobody else gives a shit."
And that is the lesson of the day.
Everyone walking around above the ground is carrying around some weight on their back, much heavier than a lost ball. Some people point it out to others, most carry it silently as they trudge through their day.
Everyone has weight and nobody gives a shit about yours.
That being said, my back is killing me lately. It is at a level 5 all the time and often it goes to a 7. This has been the way it is for nearly my whole life. Either I don't exercise enough, I am overweight, I need to swim, do sit ups, see a chiropractor, an acupuncturist...blah, blah, blah. I have relatives and friends who share this malaise and sometimes theirs is worse than mine.
Fortunately for me, there is Vicodin. Taking drugs has never been a problem for me at all...but not for medical purposes fer cryin' out loud.
The other day, Brandon introduced me to Tiger Balm. It is from the mysterious East and contains such exotic ingredients as camphor, menthol, cajuput oil and clove oil. How could that be bad? It actually works much better than Ben-Gay, not to mention the name. I think I would rather be in a wheelchair before I let Ben-Gay get his well manicured hands anywhere near me.
But I know nobody gives a shit about my problems.
My dad has a lot to be concerned with these days, but he doesn't say a word.
Taped onto my father's office desk is a little clip of paper which has been there for over 50 years. It looks like this: