There's a time in life where you reach the point that listening to That Voice is ill advised. You know That Voice. It's the one that urges for "One more beer" or "One more run down the mountain" or...

In ye olden days, I'd listen to That Voice as a matter of course. Perhaps not to the point of diving off bluffs into muddy dark water, or some of the other particularly ludicrous ideas that would bubble up. But certainly plenty of other ideas that led me to, on the occasion of my thirtieth birthday, complete surprise that I'd made it whole and sane. And, most of all, alive.

Now, I find myself in the curious position of being, if not olde, well able to see it from here.

The occasion of the moment was a momentary lapse of reason on the end of a water ski rope yesterday. The particulars aren't relevant; the result is. That's the part where, on listening to That Voice, the end of it was a face plant Of Epic Proportions.

My pride was happy to take into account the fact that, on probably the best water surface day we'd had in lo' these many years, I'd gone for it.

My ribs, on the other hand, have a different opinion on the matter. And they're happy to complain about it. No cracks, no breaks, likely no separation, but a for damned sure bone bruise, at the least. I'm fine once I've been up for a while and moving. Except for the occasional sneeze or cough.

(Those Who Know are wincing in sympathy at the moment)

The real painful part of the experience is that the dogs, and one of the cats, insist on sleeping in, around, or on top of me. And in order to accomodate them, plus my lovely bride, I am required to lay on the side with the sore ribs.

Sleeping, that's ok. It's the movement part, when I try and shift, or when I get up from the bed. And then spend an hour or two trying to remember not to move that way, or stretch that way, or for God's sake don't try and do that!

Such is life. I'm just glad, the same way I know when I've broken my nose yet again, that I've enough basic experience with these minor wounds to know when I need to go for x-rays or not. At the moment, I'm ok on that end. I just get to spend the next couple weeks running my fingers over the sore spot, and complaining (ok, cringing) every time I cough. Oy. 1