So if youâ€™re ever in a position to chuck a 25-pound baby up in the air and catch her again, and find that this is a rewarding experience because the tyke in question approves of it so effervescently so you do it a few more times, and then you do 40 laps at the pool, and then you non-chalantly reach across the counter for a Grande Mocha Frappucino at Starbuckâ€™s, a word of caution: unless you are fond of searing pain and sensory deprivation, do not repeat these maneuvers so frequently that a ligament in your left middle-aged shoulder snaps.
If you do, it is inevitable that sooner or later you should find yourself strapped to a slab under unflattering fluorescent lights, wearing a flimsy gown out of which your butt doth stick, with two technicians jabbing foot-long needles deep into your rotator cuff through which they propose to inject quite a lot of radioactive dye.
Your screams will be recorded as seismic activity by geologists in Peru.
Next, you will be blindfolded, and given headphones through which Top 40 music is playing, and cautioned not to breathe, and inserted into a giant metal tube from which emanates deafening space-ship noises, for a period of at least 20 minutes. During this interim you will experience panic responses, hallucinations, and thoughts of suicide. Oh, and the 20 minutes will seem like weeks.
Oh, and you will pay about $73,000 for the pleasure.
Just an F.Y. I.