My Friend, Lidocaine

I have a new friend. You’ve heard of the British actor, Michael Caine. Well, this is the ointment, Lido Caine. They are not related to each other, but I like them both. They bring relief, the former through humor, the latter through heat. They also have other names. For instance, Michael Caine’s real name is Maurice Joseph Micklewhite. Lido Caine’s real name–its chemical one–reflects its molecular structure and isn’t worth mentioning here except to say that it’s known commercially as “lidocaine” with one word, not two.

I heard about lidocaine before but wasn’t too familiar with it until recently when my back went out from stretching too far, my elbow went out from jabbing too far, and a neck muscle went out from sticking my head out too far. That was on a forward roll in judo. Needless to say, I should have tucked my chin.

Of course, I should have done that regarding other things in life, but I’m a slow learner. And, apparently, there’s a lot going on in my body from extending too far in one direction and just as far in another. It reflects a syncopated rhythm of muscles, ligaments, and tendons. I didn’t think a body could endure such syncopation, but there it is (see The Fundamental of Self-Care, which extols the virtues of cigarettes and martinis).

Also needless to say, lidocaine and I have become bosom buddies. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that we have each other’s back. Well, it has my back, mostly because I am as stubborn as my daughters and refuse to quit engaging in activities that put me at risk, except I don’t see them as risks. But I also don’t jump out of airplanes for the hell of it, bungee jump off bridges, or eat blowfish.

My daughters get incensed every time they hear of a cross landing on one side of my face and a hook on the other, which happens more often than I care to admit. Still, I won’t hang up the boxing gloves, not after a new pair arrived this week. They’re from Mexico and made of shiny maroon leather with a gold thumb. You know, like Goldfinger. When I opened the box, it was like Christmas.

Recently, I bought a bigger container of lidocaine. I came home and massaged it into my neck, back, elbows, and forearms. It felt great, like being electrified if not exactly set on fire. I don’t want to be set on fire, but neither do I want to smell like a hospital ward, which is what would happen if I used Tiger Balm. Don’t get me wrong. I like Tiger Balm, but you have to treat it like garlic. It should carry a warning label: “Recommended for Home Use Only.”

An older friend remarked the other day how he stays cognitively and physically active in order not to die. He didn’t say “die,” but the implication was there. With him, it’s always there, lingering at the edge of consciousness like a gas leak. He gets up at 3:00 every morning to swim, which to me is a little whacko. I’d rather get whacked in the ring hours later. At least I get to sleep longer and avoid water. For most people, the older they get, the less they like water. It’s just too wet, too intrusive. Who needs it?

Still, I need water to wash off all the lidocaine, which can get greasy. That’s just something I have to get used to in this New World of balms, ice, and Ibuprofen. I suppose it’ll come to an end when I finally hang up my Goldfinger gloves and settle into tai chi, bologna sandwiches, and chess in the park. Then I’ll be free to smear myself with Tiger Balm with abandon. It may even repel mosquitos. Tiger Balm will become my new old friend.

In the meantime, I found two companies that manufacture lidocaine. Both are American companies listed on the New York Stock Exchange, so there’s no tariff issue to gum up the works. One is located in Rancho Cucamonga, California. That’s gotta be a sign from God. Besides, when it comes to investments, it’s time I put my back into it.

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