I have tennis elbow.
I don't play tennis.
The last time I underwhelmed an opponent on the court was 10 years ago . . . at least.
It would be weirder if I had golfer's elbow, which Dr Google tells me affects the inside of the elbow or arm.
I've never played golf, but I have a golf club that sits near the door just in case Jack Nicholson drops by with an axe to grind.
I have no idea where the club came from, but I've had it for years. Possibly since the 80s.
The only thing I can think of is that I had a brief crush on Bill Murray after watching Caddyshack.
Clearly I was into unhinged greenkeepers with a varmint obsession.
Before I reveal more entrenched dreams and fears that I've based solely on 80s movies, I'll move on.
The tennis elbow was caused by me again overestimating my dexterity, especially when dealing with power tools.
My undoing was thinking I could easily use an electric sander to prepare 100-year-old weatherboards for painting.
How hard could it be?
A week after my brief time on the tools, and doing a pretty good job on a (tiny) section of the house, I realised why it's called manual labour.
As the physio (a real professional, not Dr Google) who diagnosed my condition explained, tippity-tapping (Dr Deb's term) on a keyboard uses different muscles in the wrist and up the arm than, say, trying to control an unruly orbital sander.
So this is what it's come to? I've got fragile limbs?
My embarrassment was short-lived though when the physio mentioned that at one stage I might have had an "angry tendon".
That sounded fiercer.
But forget about the tendon, I'm angry that I appear to have delicate wrists.
I'd take up needlework, but I'm sure that after a few weeks I'd be back at the physio with embroiderer's elbow or lace-maker's limp, which is a terrible affliction I believe.
My dodgy elbow has come at an unfortunate time, as I wanted to be fully fit for NSW's freedom day.
I'm not going to go silly when the gate is partially opened. Well, not as silly as the Penrith lads in the dressing room after their grand final victory.
No one wants to see grown adults acting the goat in their underpants while spraying each other with Gatorade and bubbly.
Or do they?
Hopefully, I'll be celebrating fully clothed with mates over a few beverages in a beer garden somewhere.
Remember doing that?
However, with my delicate disposition, I can't be dealing with another riled-up tendon.
If I push my luck, I might be struck by a newly discovered condition such as fruity lexia forearm or bellini bicep.
To be honest, I'm more likely to get champagne shoulder.
But anything's possible when the new normal is open for business.
It's almost time to call time on restrictions.
See you all on the other side.
Cheers, and the ice is on me.
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