What’tha heck happened to the weather we had yesterday—sunshine, light cool breeze blessing a warm day? What’s with this foggy morning and hardblowing, cold afternoon SW wind? 

Then, what’tha heck, Dave . . .

“Sounds like what you’ve done to yourself,” said Dave’s knowledgeable friend, “is pop a bicep tendon; shoulder or elbow.”

“Pop” is the right word. A week or so ago Dave heard it when he lifted a dock cart over a hose, felt a quick pain near his shoulder, heard a “pop,” gently swung his arm to see if he still had use of it (he did) then, though decidedly careful, pretty much forgot about it. 

Last evening, after finishing up the oil change, Dave climbed out of the hot engine room, headed for a shower, and as he walked through the salon, he removed his shirt. I gasped.

‘What the heck, Dave,” I said. “What’s with your arm?”

Dave looked where I was pointing—to his upper right arm.

Images of our childhood comic favorite, Popeye, entered our conversation. Not only was Dave’s right bicep bruised a creamy yellow but it protruded as a mound he might have been proud of as an 18-year-old; but an 18-year-old boy’s arms would have matching mounds of muscle.

“Hummm,” said Dave, massaging the mass. 

“Maybe you should’ve do that,” I said. “What the heck,” I said again. Then, “Does it hurt?”

He wasn’t hurting but we can spot a problem. We contacted a couple of doctor friends—one of whom sports such features in both his arms and has not chosen surgery. We started reading up on torn bicep tendons and we self-diagnosed a shoulder tear. That’s when we  learned the advantage of “being elderly.”

“Athletes and young people often opt for surgery in order to regain complete strength in the arm. The elderly mostly choose to ignore surgical treatment.” The elderly, you know, aren’t swinging axes against old growth trees or crushing cement with an iron mallet, or carrying damsels across swift streams, or lifting car bumpers. 

Here’s the good news: we don’t have to call off our cruise. The good news is that David is comfortable with his budging bicep, and as TV advertising encourages, he will “talk to his doctor” about it when we return home.

“How’s your knee, Barb?” Dave asked, knowing that I am elderly, and I have learned the meaning of meniscus and the pain that can attend it. But about my knee, I’m like some women are about age—I’d rather not talk about it.