I tweaked a shoulder a couple of months ago (getting old is not for the timid) and finally had it looked at when it didn’t heal on its own. Today I got to see a physical therapist, which had me humming this song all afternoon.
That in turn got me going off into hyperlink heaven (or hell – it’s a fine line) with a string of the other “related” videos that YouTube suggested. Boyce & Hart. The Status Quo. Small Faces. Manfred Mann. (Our neighbors across the street were the Quinn family, I was young enough to think they might be related.) The Cowsills! Paul Revere & The Raiders. (I think we actually saw them, or at least some current incarnation of them, at a Cal State Northridge Fourth of July fireworks show about fifteen year ago.)
Jeez Louise, will that mess up your head. It’s only fair, goes along with my messed up arm. (It will be fine, just makes me wince and cry out in anguish any time I have to reach in back of me right now, like when I pull my keys out of my pants pocket or try to put on a shirt or jacket. The Long Suffering Wife hates it when I whimper.)
Meanwhile, back in the Twenty-First Century, the poor PT tech probably doesn’t get many folks with my sense of humor. That could be a good thing, or not. But, for example, when he wants to use the ultrasound machine to get some heat into the damaged shoulder, he was confused when I asked if we would be able to tell if it was a boy or a girl.
In general, I’ve found that most medical professionals have issues with people with a weird sense of humor. What I think of as snappy repartee to lighten up what could be a grim and painful encounter, they often want to take as a literal description of a physical problem. (Or signs of an obvious mental problem, but so far I’ve managed to dodge that bullet.) And they really, really don’t like smart ass comments about the annual prostate exam. (Like this one.) I have learned through experience that the prostate exam jokes are best delivered after the exam rather than before. Fewer opportunities for them to express their opinion of my material while they’ve got a finger buried to the second knuckle.
On the other hand, most (not all) of the receptionists and desk workers seem to be happy to talk to anyone who isn’t either in terrible pain, horribly depressed, or just wanting to dump on them because of something that wasn’t their fault. When they try to sign you up for a 6AM appointment, a couple of friendly wisecracks will get you the much better 8:45 appointment. (I wouldn’t show up for a 6AM appointment if it were for my own funeral! For Rush Limbaugh’s funeral, yes, but not for mine. Ba-da-dum-BAM! Thank you, I’ll be here all week, tip your waitress, and I’ll see you at 8:45.)
The doctor’s office. A tough crowd. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.
We Love The Stars Too Fondly 