Last Saturday, I drove out to one of my favorite paintball fields to run a few drills, and to fit in a few practice games in preparation for an upcoming paintball tournament on October 1st. Like an idiot, I went out and played hard without stretching properly, and I ended up pulling my hamstring. If the internet can be trusted, I believe I have a grade 2 hamstring strain, which means no paintball for me for the next four to six weeks. Ouch.

These days, I’m walking with a limp, and a large portion of the backside of my leg looks like there’s a huge, dark bruise. It’s kind of gross and fascinating at the same time. I considered posting a picture of my messed up leg in all of its internal bleeding glory, but my better judgment won the fight, and I decided instead to post an awesome picture of me snap shooting from behind a spool.

Man. It almost looks like I know what I’m doing.

So I guess I’m out of commission for the next month or so. In the meantime, I’m limping with a gimp leg. This is all a very strange and new experience for me, because until now, I’ve never in my life had a legitimate reason to walk with a limp. I’ve seen people do it on television and in the movies, and I’ve passed by the occasional limper or two while shopping at the supermarket, but I had never walked a mile in a limper’s shoes until recently. Truth be told, walking any stretch of distance is kind of an ordeal for me right now.

To be honest, I’m a little bummed. I’m benched from my favorite weekend activity for a while, and I’m still a little self conscious about my limp. It’s not like I have anything to be ashamed of for walking around with a bum leg. I guess I just don’t like drawing attention to myself, and inviting people to make all kinds of assumptions about me because of my uneven stride. It’s strange how something like a strained hamstring can take you back to all of those childish, playground insecurities that used to plague you in elementary school. I’m an adult, goddamnit. I should conduct my affairs as if I don’t give a shit. That’s something to strive for, anyway.

In an effort to combat these insecurities of mine, I’m putting my faith into a simple remedy — turning my awkward limp into a defiant swagger. Life is just so much better when you incorporate a little swag into the mix. With each shuffled step I take for the next four to six weeks, I’ll be singing to myself the hook to “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp” from the Hustle & Flow soundtrack. The only difference is, in my head, I’ll be replacing the word “pimp” with “gimp”. Yeah, I know, that’s kind of sophomoric and obvious. If you have a problem with my remedy, then I invite you to tear your own hamstring, and to sing along to whatever song that you so desire.

Four to six weeks. Ugh. That’s too long to wait for the next opportunity to shoot some people in the face. You know, it really is hard out here for a gimp. Here’s to you, November. I’ll be seeing you soon enough.