Two sets of friends
Despite my loving French onion soup – which is definitely in my top five soups – I only recently discovered that the Firecracker never had any.
Me: You never had any?!
Her: Why do you do that, Logan? You ask me something, I answer, and you are always shocked at my answer.
Me: Because I’m always shocked at your answer!
Realizing this, I spent a little too much time trying to find a joint around me that made some, to no avail.
So, I figured since I couldn’t find it for her, decided to try making some.
Me: Well? Whaddoyou think?
Her: OMG, this is so good!
Me: Yeah, you seriously hit the jackpot with me – easy on the eyes AND I can cook, too.
Her: (rolls eyes) And so humble.
Me: The humblest, even.
Been home more lately just because my back has just been killing me.
That, plus some idiot at my gym torqued my ankle with a hyper-aggressive lock and probably tore some part of my instep.
I don’t recommend it.
I’ve noticed that for years decades, really, I’ve had two sets of friends:
-
- The injured
- The uninjured
At any given moment I will have (most of which are because I’m clumsy):
-
- A herniated disk
- A broken finger (I’ve broken seven outta ten)
- A cracked rib (3x)
- A torn shoulder
- A hyperextended elbow (20+x)
- A sprained ankle (20+x)
- A broken tooth (6x)
- A broken toe (2x)
- A torn knee
- A ripped lip
- A cracked jaw
Considering that X percentage of my friends fight regularly and Y percentage don’t, this makes sense.
Yet, recently, I’ve been slowly realizing that I have almost no uninjured friends left.
It’s not so much that I’ve got more fighter friends, it’s that age is breaking down the bodies of my non-fighter friends.
And yet, I also see that they deal with these injuries very differently.
Most of my fighter friends are more what I might term “bummed” that they’re injured while my non-fighter friends seem more upset that they’re dealing with this sorta thing.
Anywho, merely an observation.
Him: Logan! How have you been?
Me: Still topside and breathing, although my back is crap.
Him: Don’t even get me started on my back. Oh, and I ate a nasty wrist lock the other day.
Me: Yeah, this idiot at my gym…
Location: hanging with Buckley et al a little north of here
Mood: ex-haus-ted
Music: Baby, I’m cookin’ with gas (Spotify)
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