Off the Injured Reserve

In the world of baseball it is called the IR...injured reserve. A much nicer way of categorizing your fellows than in the Army. Broke dick. Fucking profile. But then again, even the Major Leagues ain't the wolf pack an Army airborne unit is. Come up gimpy you get eaten. It is why I went two years without telling anyone my leg was broken.  But I live in a much different world now, so when I chopped up my casting hand in blender a week or so ago I felt comfortable telling the world about my idiocy as well as my disability. I was out of the game for a bit. Soon to return, if all went and healed accordingly.

Today was my first day back. And it felt oddly bittersweet. Like the onset of hunting season when I was a kid...which also meant having to go back to school. I have been tending to my nearly severed right thumb and it has only been the last few days that I have been brave enough to attempt some casting out behind the fly shop. The first time I screamed like a rabbit in a Victor leg-hold...and then bled through my bandages. But was happy as hell. I still had the strength and ability to throw a straight 60-footer. Good enough for any type of fishing, by god!

I hurt a bit today. But not too bad. Landed ten carp. Nothing of any size...but reassuring none-the-less. But it was bittersweet, like I said. Because now I have to start splitting wood and doing my share of the dishes again...