Old and Busted

Being male, I break wind almost constantly. My brain is also wired to expect ridiculous things from my body, such as an infallible sense of direction and a supersonic mutant healing factor. This wiring is superb for getting out and having fun, but it's terrible for the balanced consideration of consequences and disaster. This is why stuff like naked mountain bike riding, bear baiting, drink driving, motorcycles, heroin, The Running of the Bulls and triple-hot Andhra curries exist. After all, death and permanent injuries only happen to pussies, and chicks dig scars.

Now that I've hit thirty, this wiring is beginning to cause a few problems. My body can't take those stupidly crazy missions without some kind of physical or chemical preparation, and a few particular bouts of minor silliness leave me mewling like a newborn kitten. I was never under the impression my physical vessel was forged from pure adamantium, but I always thought that if I snowboarded off a cliff into a erupting radioactive volcano, a few weeks off and some chicken soup would have me completely mended.

The latest traitor to the cause is my lower back, which has always been a bit dodgy since that acrobatic fivesome on the bouncy castle at my 21st birthday. It's recently given out entirely, leaving me doing an extended polka of core stability exercises, anti-inflammatory drugs and expensive ergonomic furniture. I really wish I could just grit my teeth stoically and ignore the whole situation, but that's precisely the worst thing I can do. I have to shut up, take my medicine, and steer well clear of lunatic behaviour. I think I can manage it, although if another young whippersnapper gives me lip about it, I'm going to hit him in the spine with a pickaxe. Then he'll understand.