I am, to quote a cliche, on the shelf.

That’s not how Marty Leesch at Fyzical Therapy in Selma worded it when he told me to stay off the pickleball courts and the golf course for two weeks.

What he said was: “There are a lot of good movies on Netflix.” I got the message, even though I prefer ballgames.

My issue is an aching hip. (My new joke: I used to think I was hip, now I have a sore hip.)

No, I don’t need surgery; it’s simply bursitis. I use the term “simply” with plenty of sarcasm. What I have is anything but simple. It means I have to shut down activities that will further inflame that bursa sac on my right hip. (Six months ago I couldn’t tell you what a bursa sac was. Now I know more than I ever wanted to.)

Besides sitting in my recliner watching TV (God bless ESPN), reading and napping, the cure for bursitis involves a lot of ice and a lot of stretching. That’s s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g, pronounced slowly. Believe me, there are no quick moves in what I do.

As physically active as I have been my whole life, I’ve never been much of a workout guy. I guess I was blessed with muscles that didn’t pull and joints that didn’t break down. That is, until I turned 70 last year.

Now, I’ve morphed into a 1990’s-vintage heap with rusted bumpers, bald tires and a hole in the radiator. Anybody got a band aid and a couple aspirin?

My latest mantra is that aging can be described in two words: Pain management. And I’ve always been the kind of guy who wants to fix my aches and pains with a pill or an injection.

But it isn’t always that easy. So I’m doing the stretches. I’m sitting on ice in my recliner. And trying to have a life in between.

I went to the pickleball courts last Tuesday, just to hang with the gang at Brentlinger Park. Drove all the way to Fresno so I could take a swim in the family pool, to get some muscles moving. Bought flowered swim trunks at a thrift store because that’s my style of shopping therapy.

My goal is to get back on the court and the golf course. (OK, I might have snuck off to the coast on Monday with a few buddies, and I might have brought my golf sticks. Shhh!)

And I want to be able to (somewhat) keep up with my 3-year-old grandson, but that goal might be a stretch (pun intended). Even before my hip pain escalated, the Little Dude said: “Grandpa, you no can catch me.”

Ouch! Sometimes words hurt more than my body does.

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Longtime Selma resident Ken Robison is a retired newspaper reporter, editor, photographer and columnist. Selma Stories runs most Wednesdays in the Enterprise.

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