Normally, I’d be upstairs working out – in the very limited manner that I do.
The bride is upstairs in the exercise (i.e., torture) class.
Disgustingly healthy people are passing by me with their fru fru water on the way to the weight room, racquet ball, or one of the classes (i.e., torture room).
They look at me smugly as they sashay by.
Maybe I remind them of a mangled car wreck.
It sure looks that way by their looks.
Meanwhile, one of my lower back disks is continuing to press upon the sciatic nerve going down my left leg like, well, like they do when they aren’t content to stay in place.
And it all happened this time because of a frog.
And I don’t even like them.
These little green guys love to swim in our pool. Problem is that when they are finished swimming, they can’t find their way out. And eventually, they are pushed over to the skimmer where they drown.
Along with the other thousands of insects.
Seems strange for a frog to drown.
Sometimes I find rats in the skimmer.
I don’t want to see the frogs die.
I don’t mind rats dying.
Sometimes I find the frogs before they drown.
It’s always a nice surprise to look into your skimmer and find frogs still croaking.
So, on this unfortunate occasion I checked the skimmer and there he was. A goodly sized bullfrog who still had a few breaths in him.
I’ll call him Mr. Green.
“Give me at outta here,” gasped Mr. Green.
I obliged and lifted the skimmer. Water poured out revealing a plethora of deceased insects. If only we had had the pool when my daughters were collecting bugs for their eighth-grade science class. But I digress.
I empty the contents of the skimmer onto the grass as I normally do and Mr. Green falls to the grass. He was bloated with pool water of course, but he was still alive.
He hadn’t croaked.
Well, he couldn’t really croak with all that water inside him.
Here’s the fun part; I squatted down and inspected Mr. Green.
He seemed okay.
Well, besides being 12 times his normal size because of the water.
Then I abruptly turned to my right, while still in the squatting position, and felt and heard the sound of crunching cellophane crumpling.
That was my spine.
About .02 seconds later the pain arrived.
I could not walk, or do much of anything else. Except for writhing in pain.
Because I had my cell phone with me I called my daughter who was merely a few feet away inside the house.
She rushed outside to see me in an unfortunate state of agony. Since then: lots of pain, physical therapy, and a few surgical consults.
So, until I get better, I’ll stick to the lobby couch while the bride works out in the torture chamber upstairs.
No word on the whereabouts of the waterlogged Mr. Green but I have a contract out on his family.