Wilder by Far

A look at life with the Wilder family. Updated most weekends and some vacation days. You can contact me at movingnorth@gmail.com..

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Sunday, October 14, 2007

"Pulled a hamstring playing twister. Thought I'd walk it off." - Dr. House, House, M.D.


A granite statue of Sam Houston. This statue never pulled a hamstring. Darn statues, anyway.

There was a TV show back near the dawn of HD color that was called Get Smart. This series chronicled the adventures of Agent 86 of Control (the super-secret agency), Maxwell Smart. One of super-science villains that tried to kill Maxwell Smart was Leadside. Leadside was normally bound to a wheelchair, since he couldn’t walk. Control agents attempted to protect Maxwell by cordoning off his building, looking for a guy in a wheelchair. When a jogger came through, nobody notice. See, Leadside couldn’t walk, but he could run.

I feel that way.

I think it started with the fire ants.

I was minding my own business, trimming the hedges (Am I the only one that likes to pretend the hedges scream when you trim them?) and found that my leg was covered in fire (ants). Fire ants tend to climb up and on you, as unnoticed as George Clooney at a Star Trek® convention. (Note: put any chick George has ever dated into a Klingon© outfit, and she would have to fight off legions of drooling Trekkers. George? Not so much.)

Fifteen or so of them decided to bite en masse and I responded by leaping up vertically like Wile E. Coyote and then scampering in the air for a second until I caught traction. I think it was at this moment, as the alkaloid poison from the Solenopsis Invictus (cool name for cruddy little fire ants) began to slowly evoke all manner of response from my body. My jump in the air must have pulled my hamstring, which had never (really) gotten better after a bout of high school football.

Happily, I can walk like a champ. Sadly, my hamstring fills my body with a hideous, searing pain whenever I sit down in a chair. Oh, and whenever I get up from my chair. Driving? Shear agony.

Sitting and writing, like right now? Not great, but with enough beer fortitude I can tough it out.

I’m quite sure that more than one of you was worried that I’d had a stroke when Al Gore won that Peace Prize™ for publicizing Global Panic Warming®. I’ve been eyeing that Prize©, and even have a spot on the mantle all ready for it. Thankfully, no.

Just fire ants. But they’re probably Global Warming Fire Ants.

Anyhow, yeouch. I’m going to go lie down (which feels fine, too).

Dang Al Gore, anyhow.
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