Mmmmm, propofol

As you go about your morning, a highly skilled surgeon who is half my age, possibly a third, will be slicing me open to make some repairs.

I'm not using the word 'repair' for comical effect. 

The name of this particular surgery is a repair. I'm sworn not to go into specifics, but it turns out my physical invincibility -- the excessive biking, swimming, walking and lifting weights -- was nothing more than a mental delusion.

In short, I overdid it. 

Are you familiar with the expression, "he didn't know his own strength." Apparently I didn't know mine. Because my insides started, and successfully, finding a way to push themselves towards the outside. As a result, I am left unable to pursue one of my self-important goals of bench pressing 300 lbs.

I did, however, manage to hoist up "two plates" for multiple reps and at one point surpassed the recorded efforts of several rookies in their nationally televised NFL Combine. Mostly punters, skinny defensive backs and tired tackling dummies who will never separate their fat asses from the bench.

Hopefully, by the time you are reading this I will be sewn back up and resting comfortably in one of those bendable beds with all the electronic gizmos to meet my every need. 

"I'd like two tacos carne asada, with rice and beans, thank you."

Also, hopefully, I'll be higher than a kite on Percosets or Norvo. Enough so that I won't barf at the site of hospital food. 

Having spent a college summer working at Good Samaritan in Suffern, NY, I know firsthand that inedible hospital food is even more inedible once you see and know what goes on in the kitchen. 

Prior to this "repair", I was told it would be a simple outpatient procedure. And that I'll be back home before the sun goes down today. I have my fingers crossed that all transpires because I've managed to go roughly 66 years without ever spending a full night in a hospital. 

Except for when my kids were making their long awaited arrival and I had to curl up a recliner and contort my spine with more unnatural twists and turns than Trump's single overworked strand of hair.

With any luck I'll wake up tomorrow ready to hit the weights. 

Nothing over 200 lbs.