An Ode to My Forearms

Yesterday, my sister took me rock climbing for a late birthday present.  When I first walked in, there were summer camp kids climbing the easiest walls, and some guys, ripped and shirtless, climbing the most difficult walls.  They had some pretty cool tats and some pretty cool moves.  I was very intimidated.  After a while, I got over my embarrassment and climbed the easier walls until my hands just couldn’t handle it anymore.

This morning, I woke up, and my arms were gone.  (I’m typing with my nose right now, so if there are any typos, please forgive me.)  Rock climbing strained my forearms so much that they packed up my bones and ligaments, and convinced my hands to crawl off into the night.  I’m pretty good at opening doors with my foot, so I didn’t have much trouble getting out of the house, but driving was quite difficult.  Thankfully, I didn’t get pulled over for being an armless driver.  My knees were sufficient. 

But really, my arms hurt.  A lot.  When I tried to squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush, I kept saying “ouch, ouch, ouch…”  It was pathetic.  As I drove to a meeting, I tried to use my fingers as little as possible, so that my forearms wouldn’t commit suicide or divorce my elbows.  They are feeling a bit better now, so I’m sure they won’t leave me yet. 

Moral of the story: Appreciate your forearms.  You never realize how much they do for you until they suddenly hand you a resignation letter and leave in the middle of the night.