Monday morning I went to hop in the truck and head into town to see the sawbones. Naturally, my truck had a flat tire. My wife was already gone, so I did my best imitation of a NASCAR pit crew and changed the tire in record time (which, incidentally, didn't help my back at all).
Off I roared, planning to make up the lost time on the road. Said road is a twisty two-lane country road, with very few opportunities to pass. Of course, I got stuck behind some sweet old granny who was merrily putting into town at about 25 MPH below the posted speed limit.
However, I know this road like the back of my hand. We were approaching one of the few places where it's safe to pass, so I sped up, got close behind her, and was ready to floor it when we rounded the bend...
... right where the flag man was stationed, closing off our lane while road construction was underway. We sat there for about five minutes (which seemed more like five hours) before it was our turn to proceed.
That did, however, give me time to call the doctor's office and let them know I was running late. They cheerfully informed me that the doctor was booked solid all day, but they would try to squeeze me in. After waiting a couple of hours I finally got to spend five minutes with the guy, only to be told to take it easy for a few days, let any swelling and inflammation settle down, and come back next week.
I've got no problem with taking it easy. It's the come back next week - on a Monday, natch - that worries me...
4 comments:
I sometimes hate doctors. I know we need them, but sometimes they are a pain in the butt. If it were one of my kids, I would take them back. If it was me and I was better by next week, there would be no going back. It's a gimmick.
I know what you mean, but I don't think this one is going to get better...
Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you. The answer? Don't hunt bears on Monday.
Stay in bed and pull the covers over your head..
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