pain in the ass
Now, it wasn’t hurting at all a few minutes ago…

I’ve been getting older for awhile now.   The whole thing starts happening around the time I’m  six years old, though truthfully, it’s entirely possible that my aging could have started earlier.  (But since this is my account of the story, we’ll agree it started on my sixth birthday, the one where I was all dressed up in new Roy Rogers regalla as I blew out candles and wished for a birthday pony that never showed up.)

For years, ‘my aging’ rolled along in more or less an orderly fashion and at fairly comfortable pace. I paid scant attention to it — except for birthdays, of course. Truth be told, even at an early age, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the concept of relentlessly getting older. Of course, over the next twenty years or so, I became more and more comfortable as I became aware of  age-related fringe benefits. For example, certain things like sex, liquor, money and morally challenged women were easier to ‘come by after I reached the age of majority.

‘Things’ rocked along swimmingly, but at approximately age sixty or thereabouts, the pace of my aging seemed to inexplicably accelerate.  ‘Things’ began to get dicey. Specifically, various body parts began to rebel, and from time to time, play hurtful tricks on their owner. One moment a body part — say, an elbow, a knee, a toe joint is performing as expected.  The next moment — for no apparent reason, said body part starts to act out. Translation: It begins to hurt like a bastard!

I am convinced that my various body parts are akin to rebellious teenagers: they all have minds of their own. They sometimes ignore my wishes and willfully misbehave.  “What’cha gonna do about it old man,” they taunt. They even dare me to raise a hand to them…even if I can raise a hand, as sometimes it’s my hand that is — for no logical reason whatsoever, ‘hurtin’ like a sonovabitch.’

The reader will note that one of the invariably maddening things about all this is when the pain persists and I finally take said part to see a doctor, it behaves like a perfect gentleman in the examining room. Suddenly nothing is wrong with the little so and so. This chaps my hide…my hide being another body part suddenly hurting. This is a side effect no doubt and my body part’s way of always having the last efing word in our disagreements.


Obama and Loretta Lynn
Obama and Loretta Lynn

Last Friday, it’s my eyes who were the culprits. This little prank of theirs only took place over a few seconds but it still drove me bananas.

This whole episode takes place when I am walking down the drive-way approaching the house around six o’clock in the evening. I am trying to watch both where I’m walking and at the same time, get the latest news from the screen of my Android device.

Out of the corner of one eye, I see the headlines:


I could hardly believe the dialog between my eyes and my brain.

Brain: “What I just think I saw can’t possibly be true.”

Eyes:  “And why not!? We’re just reportin’ what we saw. Them’s the facts.”

Brain: “But…

Eyes:  “We thought you loved Obama.”

Loretta Lynch
Loretta Lynch

Brain: “Listen,  I do Iove Obama. I swear I do. But if he’s….if he’s…. but if Loretta Lynn is the new Attorney General nominee, it just means he’s lost his ever lovin’ mind, dammit. The Republicans have finally driven him looney-toons. I know Loretta is from Butcher Holler, Kentucky and maybe he’s trying to be conciliatory with Mitch McConnell who’s also from Kentucky but….that means Obama’s  gone crackers!

Eyes:   “Don’t you talk about Obama that way.”

Brain: “She’s a singer for godsakes, the Queen of Country Music, true — but she’s not even a lawyer for cryin’ out loud.”

Eyes:   “Well, obviously we’ve never actually heard Ms. Lynn sing, that’s a job  your ears, idiot.  But from what we can see, Loretta Lynn can do anything she sets her mind to do.

Brain: “She’s eighty-something years old for godsakes. I mean she, Willie Nelson and Hank Williams are my  favorite country singers of all time but good grief she ain’t…”

Eyes: “GOTCHA! We fooled you again, stupid idiot! It’s really Loretta Lynch – L-Y-N-C-H -from New York that Obama is going to nominate to be Attorney General. Loretta Lynch.

Brain: “Gawd, you guys…you eyes I mean…. always playin’ tricks on me. I wish you’d stop horsin’ around.  It’s not funny.”

Eyes: “Sure it is, Will’s Brain. It’s the price of getting older. And sure, it’s funny. Lighten up for chrissakes.  Now keep us eyes focused on where we’re all walking…before you trip and hurt all of us body parts.”

Brain: “OK. Alright.”

Eyes: “Now that’s the spirit. That’s more like the Will’s Brain we know and love.”

Brain: “Ouch! For some strange reason, out of the blue my hip just started hurting. Hell, that’s never happened before.”


One thing I’ve learned about my stupid, suddenly aching, aging  body parts — ears, arms, and others to frightening to mention: sometimes they can be a real tricky pain in the ass.



Loretta Lynn singing ‘Fist City’, probably an appropriate theme for an Attorney General

Images: Elbow photo is from (promotional fair use); Obama Hug photo by J.D. Lyon Jr.via; Loretta Lynch by Eric Bridiers/U.S. Mission Geneva via flickr (creative commons);
Will Cantrell

Will Cantrell

Will Cantrell (a pseudonym) is a writer, storyteller, and explorer of the milieu of everyday life. An aging Baby Boomer, a Georgia Tech grad, and a retired banker, Cantrell regularly chronicles what he swears are 'mostly true'  'everyman' adventures. Of late, he's written about haircuts, computer viruses, Polar Vortexes, identity theft, ketchup, doppelgangers, bifocals, ‘Streetification’, cursive handwriting, planning his own funeral and other gnarly things that caused him to scratch his head in an increasingly more and more crazy-ass world.   As for Will himself, the legend is at an early age he wandered South, got lost, and like most other self-respecting males, was loathe to ask for directions. The best solution, young Will mused, “was just to stay put”. All these years later, he still hasn't found his way but remains  a son of the New South. He was recently sighted somewhere close to I-285, lost, bumfuzzled and mumbling something about “...writing' his way home.” Of course, there are a lot of folks who think that “Cantrell ain't wrapped too tight” but hope that he keeps writing about his adventures as he finds his way back to the main highway.