The Cuffie Club
I just had rotator cuff surgery this week.
Everything went well. It’s pretty painful, even after five days. And I have a big sling so trying to hide my disability is going to be pretty difficult.
You know after you get a white Toyota, everyone seems to be driving a white Toyota?
That’s the way it had been with this surgery. Over the last few days, it seems like just about every person I run into has gotten rotator cuff surgery.
Unbeknownst to me, I have joined some type of special club. Me and my fellow ‘Cuffies’ can all commiserate over the pain, the procedure and our recovery.
We’ve all had a shared experience. And there lies my problem.
When I encounter someone who has also had rotator cuff surgery, they don’t just say “I had that, too”. They have tell you their entire ‘cuffie’ journey.
And it always starts with how they got injured.
“I tore my shoulder lifting a large boulder.”
“After pulling truck transmissions for thirty years, it was finally time to have it done.”
“Yeah, I messed mine up playing intramural rugby.”
Every person I encounter has a story. They seem proud to tell me how they got hurt. And the more gruesome and painful, the better.
Their stories are heroic and macho. Apparently, you’re not a ‘real man’ until you’ve had at least one torn rotator cuff.
When they finish with their story, they look at me as if to say, “top that.”
Then it’s my turn to share my ‘cuffie’ story. What gruesome injury occurred that gave me membership into this exclusive club.
“Ah….” I mumble and stutter. “Ah… I fell down.”
And that is the truth. I did fall down. But it wasn’t from doing anything macho like rescuing a child from a burning building or prying apart the doors of an elevator just as it was about to plunge 80 floors to certain death.
No, I tore my rotator cuff dancing.
And not the kind of dancing you do down at the club on a Saturday night.
Nope, my injury occurred while dancing in the ballet.
Yeah, ballet as in tutu’s and pointe shoes.
There is no way I can say that and the other person keep a straight face.
“So how’d you hurt your arm. I tore my rotator cuff back when I was a bull rider in the rodeo.”
“Well, I… ah…. fell down during the Nutcracker.”
“The ballet?”
“Yeah, the ballet.”
And would never live it down. I could become a professional wrestler or work on an oil rig but to those people, I would always be the sissy boy who hurt his arm in the ballet.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the ballet. All three of my children took dance. My wife and I have appeared in various shows including The Nutcracker for decades.
I don’t hide that I’m in the Nutcracker every year but it doesn’t add much to my masculinity score. And that’s already dangerously low.
I don’t hunt. I don’t fish. I don’t spend my Saturdays watching football or drive a big jacked up truck.
I didn’t need to add to that being the guy who tore his rotator cuff falling down during the ballet.
So, I’ve got to come up with a story that is still marginally true and makes me look macho like all of those other torn rotator cuff guys.
The truth is that someone stepped on my cape during the Battle Scene and it pulled me off balance. And that made me fall down on my elbow.
It didn’t involve heavy machinery. Wrestling a bear or stopping a car jacking. I was dancing in a cape while wearing lipstick and blush.
So, I’ve got to come up a better story. A believable alibi.
“So, how did you injure your shoulder?”
“I was in a fight.”
That’s not really lying. The Battle Scene does have mice fighting with toy soldiers.
But one look at me, and you know I don’t fight. I can throw a birthday party but I can’t throw a punch.
So maybe I could say, “I was assaulted during a hostage situation.”
That sounds much more dangerous. The Mouse Queen is trying to steal Clara so it’s not really a lie. Maybe I’ll go with that one.
Or, “I was attacked by this guy with a big sword.”
And that’s kinda’ true. Sure, he’s dressed like a mouse. And he does have a sword. A big plastic one.
But, how many sword battles have you read about since the 17th century?
For now, I’m just trying to avoid people so I don’t have to explain how I got injured.
No matter how hard I try, I know I’ll never be able to convince anyone I was in a fight, a hostage situation or attacked by a big mouse with a sword.
Falling down during the ballet. That sounds like me.
Being heroic. Not so much.
My shoulder will be healed in a couple of months. The sling will be gone and I won’t have to come up with some phony story of heroism.
Until then, if you see me around town and I still have a sling on, it’s okay to stop me and ask me what happened. Even if you already know.
Who knows what ridiculous story I may have to tell.
“I got attacked by giant crabs.”
“I lifted a car off a baby.”
Or, my personal favorite.
“Bees!” (Just bees.)
Recovery may turn out to be fun after all.
