It was a hell of a fight!
I’d like to tell you I was jumped by a dozen highly trained Ninja warriors, all of whom had been sent specifically to take me down. I’d tell you I fought valiantly, using every trick I’d learned during 82-plus years of getting into things I probably had no business getting into. I’d tell you I dispatched them one by one until, standing there amid the wreckage, I finally emerged victorious.
Yeah, that’s what I’d like to tell ya.
I could also tell you that I’d finally pissed off Jody one time too many and she clocked me. That would make for a much better story, especially if I claimed she was wielding some ancient martial-arts weapon and had that look in her eye that says, “You have exactly three seconds to reconsider your life choices.”
But alas, both stories would be falsehoods.
The truth, as is so often the case, is considerably less heroic.
I got a piece of bad fish.
Yep. That’s it.
No Ninjas. No bar fight. No jealous husband. No international crime syndicate. Just a piece of fish that apparently had decided its final mission in life was to destroy me.
Whatever was living in that fish apparently had better survival instincts than I did, because before long I was trying to regurgitate my toenails.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had one of those spectacular bouts of upchucking where your entire body gets involved, but it’s not a graceful experience. There is no dignity in it. Your stomach contracts, your eyes water, your ears ring, your ancestors start making suggestions, and somewhere around the third heave you begin wondering whether the warranty on your internal organs has expired.
In the middle of this heroic display of gastrointestinal combat, I apparently managed to burst a small blood vessel next to my eye.
I didn’t even know you could do that.
Apparently, at my age, even throwing up has become a contact sport.
The next morning, I looked in the mirror and there it was.
A shiner.
Not a little one, either.
This thing looked like I’d spent the previous evening in a biker bar negotiating an international peace treaty with my forehead.
Naturally, the first question everybody asked was, “What happened?”
Now, here’s where a man has a choice.
He can tell the truth.
Or he can improve the truth.
I considered telling people I’d been attacked by a gang of Ninjas. But then somebody might ask why I wasn’t covered in Ninja bodies, and frankly, I didn’t have the energy to manufacture that much evidence.
I thought about blaming Jody. But anyone who knows Jody would probably believe me, and then I’d have an entirely different problem.
So I told the truth.
Bad fish.
Which is not nearly as impressive.
After more than 82 years of “gettin’ into stuff,” I’ve finally acquired what I’m calling a badge of honor.
Well, maybe not honor exactly.
Let’s call it a badge of survival.
Or stupidity.
Or perhaps simply proof that after all these years, I’m still capable of finding new and inventive ways to injure myself without actually doing anything interesting.
And I’ll admit, there’s something rather satisfying about it.
I may not move quite as fast as I once did. I may make noises getting out of a chair that sound like an old wooden boat being dragged across a boat ramp. And these days, a night of serious partying can mean staying awake until 10:30.
But put a shiner next to my eye and suddenly I look like I’m still active in that part of my life.
People look at me and think, “That guy’s been in a fight.”
And technically, they’re right.
I fought the fish.
The fish won.
But I survived.
And after 82 years of this particular adventure called life, I’ll take my victories wherever I can get ’em.
Even if they come with tartar sauce.
