Hot out

July 11, 2019

“It’s time to hibernate”

            You want to know the truth? I’m not a big fan of July. It’s pretty much a bad month for doing anything other than napping and eating ice cream. – Note to self: Try to remember not to nap while eating ice cream.

            This July has been particularly bad on me. Have I ever mentioned the fact that I sweat like a plow-horse on diuretics… or that it took me 10 minutes to come up that simile? If I step outside for anything, be it to get the mail or take the garbage out, when I step back into the house, I’m drenched in sweat. I got that from my Dad who got it from his Mom who got it from a Libyan camel herder. -- Don’t ask. 

            The last couple of weeks, I’ve been hauling 100-pound dirt bags from my neighbor’s yard to my backyard. This has given me a greater appreciation for dirt bags. I used to think that calling someone a “dirt bag” meant that the person was of low moral character. That was stupid. It means that the person is heavy. And, if the person is all wet, he’s extra heavy. I have every confidence that the dirt in the sandbags was really wet. -- Note to my neighbor: Don’t ever bag wet stuff.

            At one point Kay made a horrible mistake and asked if she could help me with the bagged dirt. Bless her heart. Kay’s generously brave offer cost me. She ended up sprawled out in the recliner for three days. The only reaction I could get from her was an occasional high-pitched moan. I never knew this, but I can handle a low-pitched moan much better than a high-pitched one. Sets my nerves on edge.

            Kay did eventually improve to the point where she could again mow the lawn. Each time she mows, I do the weed eating around the perimeter of the house, along the sidewalk and along the edge of the driveway, and street. At one point, my battery-powered lawn trimmer ate the 0.95 mm plastic string. It took me 20-minutes to unsnarl the web of plastic cord, and another three hours to reassemble the weed-eater.

            I would like to grab the guy on YouTube who demonstrates how to disassemble and reassemble a grass-trimmer. As he places his hand atop the cap of the spool that contains the balled plastic string, he’s jovial as all get out. Immediately before he tries to take off the cap, there is a quick blip in the video. I’m thinking a 23-minute erasure. When the man returns to the screen, he’s holding the cap in his hand and wearing a look on his face as if he had won the Dakota 500 out Fargo. Just made me want to scream.

            That being said, I owe a great deal to the people who voluntarily submit videos on YouTube. With their help, I’ve been able to repair everything from toilets to brake lights. While they made each job look like a piece of cake, mine looked more like a vat of molten lead. Still, it was their look of confidence that saw me through each task.

            Speaking of something molten, another place where I’ve been doing a lot of sweating is at The Y -- short for “Young Men’s Christian Association.” (Founded in 1844 in London). Today the name no longer applies. Not even the “Y” part of it. During the day when the young and middle-aged are either in school or at work, the Y is full of the older-aged… of both genders. I couldn’t swear that everyone at the Y is a Christian, which is okay, because Christians aren’t supposed to swear. I will tell you that my racquetball partner is agnostic.

            Brad Meyer and I play racquetball a couple of times a week at the Y. At the start, Brad was considerably better than I was. Now, he’s simply better. On and off the court, the one thing I’m having the most trouble with is pain. My hip tends to hurt when I first stand up, and when I start break dancing. It’s been messed up for two weeks now. Since the start of July.

            Last week, it was my foot that’s killing me. To be more precise, it’s my achilles tendon to be more precise. What’s weird is that 25 years ago that same tendon snapped on me like a wet towel at a fraternity hazing. It was while playing in the Thanksgiving Day Hayter Football Game that I tried to fake Larry out of his ridiculous-looking yellow football pants.

            My path had “touchdown” written all over it, when I both heard and felt a pop. I’m telling you, my foot just dangled. After surgery, I had to wear one of those boots with the metal brace. Oh, and I was of very little use around the house, which really upset Kay. The thing that upset me the most was the fact that they didn’t even stop the game after I got hurt. And, I was the captain of our team!

            While that particular injury happened in November, I’m still quite fond of that month. It’s July that really gets my goat. I’m telling you, it’s a lousy month for me. The only thing worse is August. -- I’m thinking that a mid-summer hibernation is the most practical solution for me. I’ll wake with a look on my face as if I just scored the winning goal in the Women’s World Cup Championship Game. – I may have just rushed that simile a bit. 

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