The Evil Ben and Tinsel Lies I Didn’t Tell

I’d like to talk about my shoulder.

It has become a character in my little life story. Like the pet chameleons my dad used to sell in our Ben Franklin store that came with a tiny collar and a leash that you could pin to your sweater. It’s always there – let’s call it ‘Ben’ – and is usually sleeping. But then Ben wakes up with a start, leaps to its tiny feet and bites me in the ass, well, actually in the shoulder, but it is truly a kick in the ass when it happens.

Ben has put a stop to my swimming life. Last night, my son said he spent an entire summer as a lifeguard watching a guy swim using just one arm. He demonstrated. I wondered how a person could avoid swimming in circles. He had no answer.

I go to physical therapy. On the first visit, the physical therapist demonstrated what was happening to my rotator cuff by tearing the edge of a Post-it note. It seemed both explanatory and somewhat threatening like if you don’t do your PT, this Post-it note could totally rip!

Then ensued measuring and stretching and then pulling on resistance bands and doing lunges in a doorway. (Too hard to explain and I don’t have a picture.) The PT’s young apprentice is very smart but intent on establishing rapport by quizzing me about my Christmas decorations. I don’t gripe about this because of casual inquiries about my Christmas habits. Oh no, she questioned me about the location and extent of my Christmas lights, whether I preferred colored lights or white, do I have a color theme in my house, did I have a favorite ornament. She did not ask about tinsel, however. That would have been a wonderful opportunity. I put tinsel everywhere, I’d say. From the dining room chandelier to the toilet handle. Draping strand by strand. It takes hours.

I gotta go. Ben’s doing his gnawing thing.