Rain, cold and Arthur

Rain, rain, go away
Come again some other day...

Rain didn't bother me when I was a kid. At best, it was a momentary joy to stomp in the puddles splashing less than pristine water on my sister's white socks and shiny Mary Jane's while my tongue lolled out of my mouth like a dogs to catch the rain drops in an attempt to gather them all.

At worst the rain meant that a planned outing was cancelled and that the traipsing in and out through the black screen door was halted to keep the muddy footprints from tainting the freshly mopped green and white flecked vinyl floor tiles that had so recently been mopped.

Now, rain comes and brings both an addition to the level of the water table and an addition to the level of pain.

I have to exercise because I made a pledge to myself to do so. I even promised the smiling countenance of Denise Austin, who doesn't even know me, that I would do 'just one more' of whatever unnatural position she is encouraging my beat up body to assume.

And, I have to exercise because, for whatever reason, my best friend Beth tells me that it's a good thing to do. I agree. It IS a good thing to do. On the days I am not dreaming of a big whopping smoothie made of Demerol and morphine…

But, then on the days that everything hurts and I'm spending my time with Arthur Itis and his aches and pains, I'm not too convinced that it is so much 'good for me' as it is a way to help my dog Gyspy inherit my earthly wealth. Won't she be surprised when the read the will only to discover it is actually a forgotten grocery list written on the back of the last direct mail envelope that I received last February!

Today was a rainy, cold day that made me question just why it was that Christmas is celebrated in the winter and why on earth we hadn't made better plans to live near the Equator.

I sympathize wholeheartedly with those who suffer the pains of life. And I empathize with those who require a steady diet of pain pills to get to sleep without moaning.

The sad realization came to me one day when I discovered that I hurt when I do my exercises and I hurt when I DON'T do my exercises. Who knew?

There could be new lyrics in there somewhere, but I'm not sure which country singer would sound better singing about Icy-Hot, Ben-Gay and ThermaCare wraps. I'll have to ponder that.

I think a shower that simply sprays a fine mist of pain relieving emollients would be nice. And a full time masseuse to make everything feel better or at least make the screaming stop...oh wait, that screaming was ME!

In the event that I become one of the Publisher's Clearinghouse winners, I pledge here and now to spend the money on a personal trainer and massage therapist. I'll keep them on retainer.

Right now, it's time to take my chilled body and find a blanket to slip under. At this point, I'd be willing to slip under the influence of a pain pill as well. So far, my will conscious dog Gypsy hasn't brought me anything for the aches and pains. I've been willing to overlook that shortcoming until now.

If she expects me to be lucid enough to create an acutal will naming her as the rightful heir to all of my dog treats, bones and liversnaps, then Gypsy needs to be more cooperative when I am praying that the tub will be filled with Icy-Hot so I can just marinate in it...

It wouldn't hurt her to bring around a few pain pills in a little barrel around her neck, or maybe use those cunning teeth to open up a few hundred tubes of Ben-Gay?

Instead, she is curled up in a tight ball oblivious to my battered body - unless the batter we are referring to has 11 herbs and spices. Then she is all mine with her undivided brown-eyed, dinner seeking attention.

Time to get a blanket. Arthur is making me ache.