You Can't Make A Spare Lady Out Of Me

I might have mentioned recently that in a fit of middle-aged pique, instead of going to the doctor for some banged up ribs, I bought a ute. (Midlife Crisis? Me?)

Now, it should be said that Emergency Contact is not entirely thrilled by the order in which things were done in this particular escapade. She likes the ute, and feels a certain oestrogen-fuelled fruitiness as she’s riding around in the passenger seat. But to be entirely honest about the situation - I didn’t fully follow her instructions when I went base over apex in the bathroom. That has led to a certain, not entirely unjustifiable, anger on her behalf at the latest developments. 

It’s been long enough that I felt I shouldn’t still be getting the amount of pain that I was. The X-rays I went for this weekend show three broken ribs, and one fractured. Fortunately nothing else, like punctured lungs or Homer Simpson Syndrome (although I think EC is willing to argue that one).

I will say this though. Knowing what’s up does make me feel better about some things. I sneezed two weeks ago and almost passed out. I haven’t done it since. Turning over in bed and hearing a grinding noise, accompanied by seeing stars, is no longer so mysterious. I know why push-ups have seemed as onerous as they have been lately. 

Mine is not the most serious injury in all of this, though. The muscles in Emergency Contact’s eyes have been badly sprained from the amount of rolling they’ve had to do.