The doctor asked, “have you been doing anything abnormal lately that may have caused your pain?” I hadn’t done anything abnormal in quite some time, unless you count wearing Tarzan bikini briefs for my wife’s entertainment. I didn’t get the end result I was looking for and wound up with a three-day rash. My life is fairly routine; wake up, stagger to the shower, eat some Lucky Charms, kiss my wife good bye, drive in a Blitzkrieg of traffic to work, BS with co workers about professional sports, pretend like I am busy, drive home, control road rage, go to dog park and throw balls and Frisbees to Riley our Labrador retriever. Yep, that’s got to be the reason why my right arm feels like a limp noodle. My once golden right arm, the arm that once pitched a one hit shut out in Little League, was worn out from throwing dog toys.

I possessed a great throwing arm when I was a young’un. My skinny little arm could sling objects and projectiles with speed and keen accuracy. I suppose I came out of my mother’s womb throwing stuff around like that damn umbilical cord as I yelped and flung it across the room. As I aged, my arm developed into a high-powered catapult by throwing balls against the garage door for hours on end. When inside the house, I could wing one of those couch pillows across the living room, through the hallway, into my sisters bedroom and plunk her in the back while she was played with her Barbie’s. Instead of crying she would retaliate with mad dog rage and that’s how, a good pillow fight begins.

As my spindly arm developed faster than my brain and common sense, I was into chucking fruits and vegetables at neighbors, skateboarders and bicyclist. Sure I was a stinker for doing this but I was surrounded by a cornucopia of plums, kumquats, figs and tomatoes. I have to admit it was funny to see plums and figs explode on the back of my neighbor’s shirt. It always ended the same by him chasing me down and pummeling me until I eked out an apology.

Hurling rotten produce was replaced by throwing baseballs with mixed results. I could throw the ball very fast and the coaches would salivate to put me on the pitching mound. I could throw hard but the keen accuracy was gone because I had no concept of the pitching wind up. Every time I pitched in a game, there was a price to be paid because I led the league in crying hit batsman. I drilled many of kids in the back, ribs and legs that didn’t win me any popularity contest. Over time, the batters were so far away from the plate they were never going to hit it. The end result was either a base on balls or a strike out and a very long boring game. It was the same old story throughout my days in organized baseball. I would rear back and throw as hard as I could muster and hope the catcher remembered to wear his protective cup.

As the years passed, baseball was replaced by manual labor. Painting the outside corner with a baseball was replaced by painting the outside corner of the house. I have painted more walls and ceilings than Michael Angelo ever attempted in his lifetime. I have performed enough “Honey-Do” lists to warrant a trip to the Hall of Fame of Outstanding Husband Behavior. My arm can be enshrined in the gold with a plaque reading, “This Arm has Pruned over a Million Feet of Hedges”.

So here I am with a bum right arm that feels wimpy and useless like cheap toilet paper. The doctor prescribed a bottle of horse pills for me to gag on and an order to limit arm activity for a couple of months. Two months of no “Honey-Do” lists and throwing Frisbees sounds like a good time to rekindle my relationship with the couch. I can ponder the mileage I have gotten out of my arm and how happy I am it still hangs there. Then I get to thinking about all of my body parts and all of the wear and tear I have subjected them to. It is kind of like the old car with a decrepit paint job and shredded vinyl top, but the sucker still starts and can make it to the dog park.