Not Entering an Ass-Kicking Contest Any Time Soon

I’m staring down fifty. As of this writing that day remains about six months away, slouching inexorably closer. I fight the inevitable as best I may, hitting the gym five days a week, maintaining a generally healthy diet.

So I think it was more bad luck than age or poor conditioning that caught me Thursday afternoon. I was mowing the lawn, about two-thirds complete, when I turned to push the mower uphill for another pass. I felt something give in my right calf. I will spare you a description of the pain. Let’s leave it at “it hurt.”

MBW drove me to urgent care, while a neighbor looked after the HA. I went home with an injection and crutches. I napped through an MRI Saturday. (I didn’t think it possible either, those things are loud. But nonetheless I dozed.) Saturday evening came the diagnosis: torn gastrocnemius muscle.

I’ll have to wait for the appointment with the orthopedist for word on recovery time and treatment. Meanwhile, I’ll keep hobbling along.