Sometimes You’re “All By Myself”

Sushi in Southlake sounds like some sort of silly sing song rhyme some kid might sing but I am not a kid and I am not really singing it.

It is just a thought flickering through my head, part of an idea about a program to help get my quickly heading towards middle-aged body looking more like I want it to.

Ego plays a bit of a role in the push but not nearly as much as the concern about my overall health and my ability to be around for the long haul.


I have had more than my share of Texas barbecue and had too much fun searching for the best pizza in my neighborhood.

Spent too much time letting stress push me into focusing on comfort food and learned the other day that letting the good times roll isn’t so good.

Got a little frustrated by the results of the blood work because I had already taken steps to make changes.

That included increasing the amount of exercise and trying to eat more fish.

As part of that process I figured it could be fun to spend a little more time finding good sushi in the surrounding area which is part of what led to the Sushi in Southlake sing-song moment.

But I figured before I treated myself to some Friday or Saturday night sushi I’d focus on exercise.

Walk Walk Walk Walk

There is a trail near the house that they say is about 2.2 miles long.

So I figured I’d make a point to do a minimum of two circuits around it and then complement it with push ups and weights.

Wouldn’t take much to see some changes start to happen and like any good plan that is how things started to flow and why I was frustrated with my blood work.

The push ups get easier and the walks go longer and I start to think that maybe I ought to up my game.

So Thursday morning I put two miles in before work and figure I’ll come home and do between 4-6 before dinner.

That combination ought to help kick my metabolism’s ass and get things moving and then things took a turn..

Sometimes You’re “All By Myself”

That is my right index finger, or should I say the way it looked after I managed to fall down some stairs.

Don’t ask how or why it happened just accept that I didn’t fall on my face and that aside from my finger all that was hurt was my pride.

Five seconds post fall I thought, “that doesn’t look good followed by Eric Carmen singing All By Myself.

“What’cha gonna do Wilner? You’re all by yourself here. Guess you better pick your ass up and figure out where the closest hospital or urgent care facility is.”

I listened to the inner voice, dusted myself off and up three flights of stairs wondering what I would do if I needed surgery.

“Grab a cab or Uber it dude.”

The inner dialogue continued and a voice said you could ask for help and was told by another to shut up and enjoy the adventure.


I am seated at the computer fuming not because my finger hurts but because I am frustrated.

Though I have figured out how to get to and from most places I am still so new to Texas I don’t have a doctor or dentist.

Can’t yet definitively tell you that I have five favorite restaurants and I am irritated that I am having this ongoing inner monologue.

And I am pissed off for feeling like I am going to be forced to spend a chunk of money on an unnecessary accident.

It reminds me of an ongoing conversation with a teenager and I ask myself how things got to this particular place.

Not that any of that is particularly important because I need to find out if my finger requires surgery or if it is a simple dislocation.


I am rooting for dislocation and wonder if I ought to try popping it back in myself.

My left hand grabs a hold of the injured digit and I prepare to pull.

The echo of the conversation with the teenager flits through again and I decide it is better to get the x-ray and let the doctor do it just to be safe.

Two hours later when I am sitting on a bench in a waiting room I’ll think again about popping it back in myself.

“Sir, you ought to let the doctor take a look at that first.”

I look up and make eye contact with the receptionist but I don’t say anything.

Inside my head I hear the faint echo of a young boy saying ‘I can do it all by myself” but I can’t say if the voice belongs to me or the teenager.


The doctor asks me if I want a digital block or if he can take a crack at snapping my finger back into place immediately.

I give him my hand and he tells me to lie down.

A moment later there is a pull, some pain and a loud pop followed by relief.

My finger is swollen but pointing the right way again.

Doc says I can have a splint for $37.50 and I wiggle my finger at him and say I’ll be ok.

“Does it hurt when you do that?”

“It is sore but manageable.”

He provides some instructions and we exchange some pleasantries and I leave.

The next day I put in 6 miles of walking and carefully try to do some push ups.  I can do them without using my finger and so I decide to see how it goes.

One, two, three, four and five go by before I decide to quit.  They aren’t hard to do but it is not worth the pain that will come if I slip.

This index finger isn’t ready for this yet.

I am going to get older regardless of whether I want to or not, but aging gracefully might be questionable.

So I pick myself up and start humming sushi in Southlake, a man has to treat himself sometimes.

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