Last week started out well enough. Sure, the typical back-to-work blues actually began about 7:30 last Sunday, but you deal. Then, the alarm sounds on Monday (5:15, usually) as you fumble with the clock as to not disturb the wife who really doesn't have to wake up for another hour. Your attempt at a stealthy exit from the bedroom is betrayed by the popping and cracking of well-worn knees (Church League Softball, FTW) and creaking door hinges. You enter the kitchen and curse the fact that you didn't set up the coffee pot only hours before. The fact that you haven't bought a Keurig yet just emphasizes how much of a domestic loser you truly are. The high-tech bread maker you spent 400 bucks on that has been used exactly once just reinforces everything. Coffee automation is here to stay. Get with the program.
You drinks your coffee, eats your bagel and heads out the door. An 8:30 meeting awaits in front of the Division Director and you have to do the PowerPoint. People will hate you because they hate PowerPoints, especially on Monday. So, there you are in front of 30 bleary-eyed colleagues and you're about to press the big red button to advance the slide show to image #13...then WHAM!
Without warning, the searing, white-hot unmistakable pain literally takes your breath away mid sentence. However, somehow you merely wince while easing onto the next image in your crappy presentation. Fourteen down and only 20 more to go. What kind of special hell is this, anyway. Nothing is so interesting that it requires 34 PowerPoint frames. This is your rightful punishment for subjecting people to the worst product Microsoft has ever invented. By some miracle, you get through all 34 slides as the river of lava flows out of your kidney, by-passes the anti-syphon valve and into your irrigation system. It's beyond pain now...it's almost comical. Does anyone notice? The beads of sweat collecting upon your brow have turned into a torrential stream down your sideburns; the sickly gray, ashen color of your skin would even get you noticed in Iceland.
Kidney stone. Size is approximate.
The Urologist can't see you for another 24 hours. Welcome to the conveniences of living in The Big City. A doctor is never available the day of the event. However, as you lay dying all day on the coach waiting for your appointment and which you only care about because of the promise of drugs, you surf the interwebs. And the news ain't good. In fact, it's about as joyful as a kidney stone. For all good vibes eminating from spring practice and the promise of the season yet to be played that has been flowing forth both on offense and defense, the news of suspensions and rumors of more to come begins to actually outweigh the Five Alarm Blaze that has now radiated somewhere south of your belly button. If a meteor were to fall on your abode at this instant, you wouldn't bitch.
You finally see the good doctor and he delivers the goods. And the prostate check up that was 2 years overdue was the highlight of-the-week considering the events thus far. You heads home with drugs in hand and a shiny, new print out of a sonogram that shows the foreign body has left the building...and for the life of you the exact moment of egress is a mystery. But you don't care because it's gone and, at least temporarily, you are out of the geology bid'ness.
Then you get home, exhausted, and log on to the interwebs as better living through chemistry does what it does...only to learn that 77.2% of your defense has now transferred.
Yeah, it's been that kind of a week. It's called the Off-Season. You can't wait until next week. It'll probably be a gall stone and a quarterback.