Well, you never know what I’m going to do. Or, more alarmingly, I never know what I’m going to do. Case in point: yesterday, during my lunch break, I drove my fifty-nine year old, out-of-shape body to a local health club and purchased a twenty-eight day “guest” membership. I’ll bet you didn’t see that coming. I know I didn’t!
We’d probably need an army of psychiatrists to get an answer to “why”; but I’ll take a stab at the “why” question right here: You see, dear friends, I’m starting to get spooked over a chronically sore spot that’s hovering around the right part of my rib cage.