This morning, neither one of us could move.
To be fair, tilling the garden is a nasty job and I pulled muscles I don't remember having, though it probably was the same last year. I don't wonder why anymore. It's pretty simple - getting older sucks.
|Tillers are evil. But the garden looks good!|
A few years later I was at Central Michigan University and a bunch of us gathered to play football. Tackle football. Without helmets. Just stupid college stuff, no doubt fueled by Falstaff and being young. I remember trying to catch a punt, and my roommate, Marty Horjus, came out of the nowhere and flattened me with a vicious tackle.
We all laughed and played on, but I do remember the next few days of doing the "Horjus Shuffle."
I knew I was in trouble a few years ago when I woke up after a Herald-Whig Demons softball game and could barely move. Then came the harsh reality of recovering from a weekend golf tournament. Now I'm sore after a raucous Cheeseburger or HartLyss show, which we call recovering from the Rock and Roll Truck.
I refuse to let it slow us down. After all, how much slower can you go? Me and my buddy Aspirin will get through it. A glorious New Belgium beverage never hurts, either.
Life is too short to get bent out of shape about being sore. Bent, of course, being the operative word.
Now. Help me reach up for that guitar on the wall, would ya?
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