9/20/2004 - Old Age

I became an old man at 2:25am EDT (-0400), September 20th, 2004. Over the weekend, I did two things that triggered my old age.

First, I played badminton with some children. I stretched, jumped, and swung like a real competitor. This was on Saturday.

Sunday, feeling slightly sore, but unable to admit that I was getting old, I did something really dumb. Not dumb because I did it while I was a little sore. This was just seriously dumb. I'll start at the beginning...

Sunday morning, I woke up, and, armed with Raid Wasp and Hornet Spray, I took out two yellow-jacket colonies. The main colony was contained within my grill, which I have not used all summer. I opened the top of the grill, prepared for battle, and was immediately swarmed. I sprayed half of the can in every direction, drenching the grill, the deck, the side of the house, myself, and one hundred bees in a glorious slow motion orgy of death while the passionate symphonies of Ludwig Van played in my head.

I timed my assault poorly, though. After removing the grill and rinsing off the deck, I went inside to wash the spray off of myself. When I got back outside, I saw perhaps ten bees all hovering around where the grill used to be.

Wasn't there some movie about intrepid astronauts that return to earth, only to find it destroyed?

Here's where testosterone trumps common sense. I immediately think, "I must defend my household!" I arm myself with a mere flyswatter, and lunge into battle. I swat at the bees in an epileptic assault. The flyswatter buckles under my might. Then, my worst fears are realized... the smacker part of the swatter flings off into oblivion, leaving me clutching nought but a malformed wire.

I am defenseless!

Quickly, I grab the only thing around me that I can find, an old towel that had been sitting on the back of a chair all summer. I return to combat armed with a rotting towel. I swing! Bees get a comfy "foosh" of air. The bees are speechless for a moment. There's an awkward silence. A drop of sweat falls from my brow. Then, all at once, the bees erupt in a chorus of laughter...

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

One of them tries to reel the rest back in. "Okay, guys (heh), let's pull ourselves together (haha)... okay... (snicker)..."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

I go back in the house amidst their demeaning laughter. I will not admit defeat to insects! I search for a new weapon for my crusade, and I find a plastic child's tennis racket. With the noble confidence of a samurai, I rush back to my struggle.

Now I'm wasting bees like faceless henchmen in a Bruce Lee movie. I'm striking poses between swings, with the racket poised over my head in the Dragon stance. Over the course of the afternoon, I liberated scores of heathen souls. At the end of the raid, I stand, isolated, with the setting sun behind me, hard earned sweat dripping from my lone warrior's face. Softly, coarsely, I speak. "Ashes... to ashes."

So last night, as I was doing my accounting homework, I started to feel it. The back had had a bit of a workout. I took a warm bath to relax, and then went to bed.

At 2:25am, EDT, I awoke in agony. I have a stupid waterbed, which I hate, but don't get me started on that topic. The waterbed provides no support for the throes of war.

I took five minutes to get out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, then began a search through drawers for a magical medicine that could cure a backache.

Let me insert in here that I have not lived with another adult for approximately three and a half years. No medicine finds its way into my house but through me. Yet, three and a half years later, I still find miraculous little surprises all around my house.

I found some Ben Gay. I have never purchased Ben Gay. Perhaps my ex bought it years ago, and it has been sitting, unnoticed until this day. Personally, I think that God Almightly put that Ben Gay there. God has a sense of humor, and He was getting a kick out of what followed.

Anyone who has ever tried to apply Ben Gay to your own bad back will be able to relate to my puppy-dog wimpers. Reaching one's own back is difficult enough. Reaching the aforementioned back while it is in pain is... humorously painful.

So I massaged Ben Gay into my own bad back, and shuffled back to bed, wimpering and laughing at my misery. As I lay in bed, sticking to the sheets, trying not to laugh because it would hurt me to tears, I realized that I was now officially an Old Man.