Jenkins: Gotta stop leading with my ribs

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My ribs and I are on the outs. Again. Painfully. This is far from the first time, but, frankly, it is getting old.

Heading for the truck on a recent frosty morning, I made it almost to the driveway from the front deck when the last stair step — encased in clear ice — launched my foot above my head. For an instant, I was in some kind of weird marching band pose. Sailing through the air, I knew the cosmic truth. I’m screwed, I was thinking as my rib cage and back connected with the stairs. The cracking sound was my ribs’ way of saying, “Oh, yeah, you’re screwed.”

Breathless, knocked senseless, I just lay there a few seconds, unable to move. As the waves of pain roiled over me, I was just really, really ticked off. So much for a pain-free Christmas.

Jenkins: Gotta stop leading with my ribs


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