I hurt my shoulder boxing and kept on working out and kept thinking – what’s the Alcoholics Anonymous definition about outcomes and insanity? – that my body would magically heal itself and I could continue with nights of punches and push-ups, as if I owned a duel existence where nothing inconvenient ever happened.

But instead of magically healing, the pain spread, and now I’m hobbled with tight, sore muscles running the length of my left side, derailed just as i took possession of the strongest body I’d ever known.

I haven’t gone into the Spokane Boxing Club in about four weeks, haven’t told explained my absence to Rick Welliver or fear that he’ll chalk my injury up to stupidity or weakness. He’d be more likely, of course, to have a remedy, or the number for physician specializing in sports. (I haven’t gone to the doctor. It’s cheaper and more convenient to self-diagnose myself based on prior injuries and wikipedia entries.)

My pain is slowly receding due to an intense regimen of ibuprofen, ice packs, hot baths and stretches.

The devil now is in the waiting. Patience is not my strong suit, and a nurse to me that even as the pain disappears the inflammation will for some time remain.

So I must wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait and fume in impatience. Patience is always the most difficult remedy to swallow.