Maxed out 

The debate that never happens

By G.D. Maxwell

It’s spring. Officially. I know what you’re thinking. Spring rolled around a couple of weeks ago. March came in like a lion, left like delicate, perfect pink lambchops, leaving only sunshine and creamy spring skiing.

Sorry, I was busy. Didn’t notice. So sue me.

But spring has inarguably sprung. The maniacal metallic warble of varied thrushes has filled the morning air for weeks. The first non-polluting hummer buzzed me in the back yard, frantic to find a feeder not ravaged by a hungry bear. A hungry bear ransacked garbage bags left unthinkingly in a neighbour’s pickup truck. Long buried bulbs have sent up shoots once again. Clocks have changed.

And the perennial rumours have started. What would spring be without yet another ugly rumour about the World Economic Forum coming to town. Generally reliable sources tell me this time it’s a done deal. Little Pauly Martin, casting a wide net to deflect growing criticism over the scandal du jour, and our own witless Slash Gordon are reputed to have closed the deal for 2006.

Wonder if any of our local leaders have heard this rumour? Wonder if they’ll wait until I go to council and ask the question before they dig into it?

I’d have gone earlier this week to ask them about it, listen to the budget presentation and watch as they dodged and weaved – wove? – on approving the nosebleed budget for the new library but I was tied up… literally.

My Goddess of Physiotherapy, Allison McLean, shoehorned me into an already full schedule. Crying on the phone might have helped convince her to lengthen her already long day and pretend there was an opening in an appointment list that looked more like a page from a phone book. Whatever works, eh?

I’m desperate. More desperate than usual. My seasonal stint at the MotherCorp is rapidly drawing to a close and with it, the modest insurance reimbursement that postpones choosing between paying for physio and frittering my hard-earned bucks away on something frivolous, perfect pink lambchops, for instance.

More importantly, the very availability of miraculously talented physio care, at any price – something we take for granted in a town where so many miraculously talented physios practice – will come to an end when I pack up and head out for Smilin’ Dog Manor. As hard as it might be for Whistleratics to believe, the outside world is filled with physios who didn’t seem to pay much attention after the lesson about the kneebone being connected to the legbone.

And without Allison’s insightful ministrations, I’m not certain I could make the transition from winter sports to summer sports. The insults and injuries of youth are morphing through the lens of age into new, more complex insults and injuries. What feels like mechanical failure is actually crossed wires, rogue nerve impulses. Were it not for her understanding of the wiring as well as the mechanical bits, I’m certain I’d have pleaded with an orthopedic surgeon long enough by now that he’d have had me prepped for an unnecessary surgery.

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