Yours truly is afflicted with a terrible physical malady. It can ruin my days, torture my dreams, and generally leave me feeling subhuman. I’m writing about it today in an effort to spread awareness and, perhaps, link up with similarly afflicted individuals.
* Deep breaths *
My elbows are too god damn pointy.
That’s right. The bony protrusions on the outside of my arm hinges are exceptionally prominent. Leaning upon them for any length of time quickly becomes uncomfortable. They occasionally pop loudly enough to startle anyone nearby. An intense series of genetic testing has revealed that I’m descended from a small Polish settlement that once fought off the Mongol hordes with nothing but big elbows off the top rope. “Macho Man” Randy Savage and I are practically cousins.
Alas, the knowledge of my esteemed lineage is small consolation to the difficulty my condition contributes to my daily life. Lately these dastardly corners have begun conspiring with my ever-expanding biceps (Thaddeus Peppercorn and The Sarge) to tear jagged holes in my long sleeve shirts. I never notice it until I’m already at work, which means I’m stuck sitting in my cubicle and attending meetings looking like some bum who can’t maintain his clothing. Even the hardiest flannel falls to this scourge in a mere matter of months.
What’s a beautiful, fashion conscious boy like yours truly to do? Short sleeves are not always feasible here in New England. I’ve cast many a lustful eye upon nearby belt sanders, fantasizing that perhaps just a little off the top would end my waking nightmare. Perhaps some sort of padding is in order, bits of armor not to protect my person from attack but the rest of the world from a danger I can’t prevent otherwise.
Such is life when your ‘bows are built like morningstars. Sigh.