It isn't the Fall, it's the Ground that Kills Ya

A couple of weeks ago, when last I blogged, I was convinced my heart attack and angioplasty was going to be a series of one liners. I mean who gives himself a stent for his 42nd birthday? Three weeks, three more stents and a two weeks of crushing depression (the last one spent locked up in a psych ward) later, the riffs aren't what I thought they'd be.

Don't get me wrong, I am the youngest member of my cardiac rehab group by twenty years. Dear God, I'm cardiac "chicken." My man-breasts are larger than Mrs. Johnson, but dammit, they sit higher. I know because I heard the old guys comparing us at the water cooler between spirited walks.

See, hilarious! I'll be here all week...but then that's the scary part, isn't it?