If you had just destroyed a perfectly good ankle in a back yard accident, based wholly on your own folly, how would you spend the rest of your afternoon? Many of you would take this golden opportunity and milk it for all of the chore evasion it was worth. Other, lesser mortals would seek medical attention. But I’m willing to wager that I am one of a select few that would go right out (after two Motrin) and play soccer with the kids.

It’s this kind of tendency towards rash action that led me to take the stairs at work this morning. You see, soccer wasn’t damaging enough. I had to find something that would really hurt. (Who would have thought that a hypochondriac could also be a closet sadomasochist?) Running up the stairs? Are you kidding me? That’s for sissies. Plummeting down the stairs on a bad ankle is where we separate the men from the just plain stupid.

Maybe now I’ll finally take my doctor’s advice and stay off it for two weeks; unless of course, something better comes up. It’s been a while since I’ve done any tree climbing,