Some childhood values linger into the mature years. A three-year-old with a cut finger will tour the neighborhood showing off his bandage.
Me? I have a romantic limp. Your place or mine, Baby?
It's been 20 days since the power dive on ice, and the charlie horse is still giving me an excuse to carry the Celtic-American assault stick occasionally.
There's no disabling weakness, just pain varying from mild to sit your butt down right now. It seems to be getting better. At least sporadically. Yesterday was pretty comfortable and ibuprofen-free. This morning four tabs seemed like a wonderful idea. Carrying in that arm load of oak last evening was possibly a poor health-care decision.
Travis McGee nailed it. When you hurt yourself, you turn inward, listening hard for all the little signals about the status of the precious and irreplaceable me. So you don't do anything else properly, including your sworn duty.
For instance, I've given Shotgun Joe a complete pass on his directive that you must meet a lethal threat by carrying a double barrel shotgun to the veranda and firing randomly into the air. That's purdey stupid, and I'll be glad when I'm fit enough to comment on it.