The friend was complaining. He'd had a sore knee. It was slowly improving, but man, had it ever been painful.
"That's too bad," said the husband.
"No kidding," I said. "How did you hurt it?" Did you slip on an icy sidewalk, we wondered? Twist it at the gym? Fall down the stairs? We were out for dinner, the husband, the friend and I.
The friend shook his head. Nope. No sidewalk slip. No gym injury. No tumble down the steps.
"I was walking the dog," he said.
"And?" I asked. "It took off after a cat, jerking you off your feet?" "No," said the friend, whose dog is perhaps four pounds and incapable of doing the jerk thing. "Nothing of the sort. We were just walking. That's all."
That's all, indeed. Get to be our age - that is, the age of the husband, the friend and I - and odd things happen. You do not need to experience a grievous injury to damage some part of your body.
You need only walk the dog.
A couple of months ago, it was the husband's turn. I spotted him, midmorning, walking around the house at an odd angle. His face was contorted in pain.
"Wow! I said. "Are you OK?" "No!" he said. "You may have to take me to hospital! My back is killing me!" "What did you do?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders, one of which happened to be six inches higher than the other.
"No idea," he said. "I think... I... got out of bed... the wrong way."
And there it was: an injury, simply because he'd stepped out of bed.
Back in the day - and by this, I mean, back when we were 30 years younger - we never even knew there was a right or wrong way to get out of bed. Rising from the mattress - or walking the dog, for that matter - were not up there with base jumping or bull riding. They were pretty much considered safe activities.
Not any more. Today, heck, we can injure ourselves by, oh, picking up a salad fork, reaching for the remote control or opening a jar of peanut butter. Last week: me. "My elbow!" I howled.
"It's so sore!" The husband - he of the horrible, crookedback, morning-bed fiasco - inquired. "You get a bug bite?" he asked. "Knock it in the shower? Bump into a wall?" "No!" I said. "I think I just, um, touched a table. Man! It is so painful!" As I say, seems to be part of the aging territory, and I can't say I'm pleased at all. Get to be a certain age and you don't need to shut a door on your elbow to injure it. You only need to open one.
"It'll get better," said the husband. And sure enough, it did.
It's much improved, but man, have I learned a lesson. No more touching tables for me. Talk about high-risk behaviour.
