Besides the title being as long as a run-on sentence, it’s appropriate in describing the day I had. It should have been a non-descript day, but with me, those days are a rarity.

I’ve been plagued with back issues in my lower lumbar region for over a month. Sometimes the pain has been debilitating. After a steroid shot, a prescription for a muscle relaxer, and pain medication, the pain refused to subside to an acceptable level. An X-ray was ordered.

After completing and signing the form on the little computer tablet, I paid my co-pay and was directed to the radiology department. With my back hurting, I walked what felt like several hundred yards to where I would get my Xray. (To be fair, they offered to toss me in a wheelchair, but who wants to push a 300-lb. man?)

I rang the doorbell. A face and a hand reached out from the portal, took the paperwork I was given, popped back in, and closed the door. A minute or so later, another door opened. A very pretty young lady, younger than my granddaughters, told me to enter the room where a formidable array of radiology equipment was featured.

She directed me to a long metal table where I was to lie down. She asked me if I had metal on my pants, like a zipper, which I did. Then she told me that I would need to drop my pants down around my knees. Okay. I’m no prude. I use computers. I use technology for my keyboard and sound equipment to entertain. I’m writing this article on a laptop. However, I am 79 years old and a bit old-fashioned when it comes to modesty.

Apparently, having read my mind, she handed me a sheet to cover myself while I loosened and pushed my pants down around my knees. After contorting myself in positions I didn’t think I was capable of, she announced that we were finished.

Still slightly embarrassed, I exited the room, where Nancy awaited my return. I made a lame joke (I knew it was lame because I would have remembered a good joke), and we headed for the parking lot and the sanctuary of my car. I told Nancy of my bout with humiliation.

She casually commented that I was overreacting, and, having had nothing to eat all day, suggested that we find a good restaurant where I could settle down and relax.

It was Monday, after two PM. The only place open in Lexington besides fast food was a Mexican restaurant. We had eaten there the day before, so we drove down to Richmond in search of another place. We drove into the town and found a pizza place across from the courthouse that was actually open.

It was a cool and pleasant environment, perfect for relaxing after my traumatic episode at the hospital. We settled in at a comfortable booth. A young lady came to our table, took our drink order, to which I added a starter of fried ravioli.

I ordered a small taco pizza, and Nancy ordered a baked chicken parmesan. As we were waiting for our order, a couple entered and sat in the booth directly behind me. When our order came, I asked for some taco sauce to pour over my taco pizza. I was brought several little plastic packets.

Now I realize that most places use these small plastic packets for condiments. However, all I had was a fork, a butter knife, and large slippery fingers to open the packets with. A pair of scissors would work wonders, but I don’t normally carry a pair around with me.

I was able to stick a tine of a fork into the packet until my fingers became moist with sauce. I couldn’t get a good grip on the packet.

Now, at this point, a normal person would have cut their losses and given up on pouring taco sauce over their taco pizza. Not having ever been normal, or even thought of as such, I was determined to get a packet open for my last slice of pizza.

Using my teeth to grip the packet, I attempted to poke a hole in it with my fork. Little to nothing was coming out of the hole, so I squeezed with all the strength that my thumb and forefinger could muster. What happened next negated the alleged wisdom that a 79year-old is supposed to be endowed.

The sauce sprayed, yes, I said sprayed, out onto the left side of my shirt, including my sleeve. A remedy that Nancy taught me, of using an ice cube to rub onto the stains, I put to use.

I fished an ice cube from my water glass and rubbed it all over the stains. That’s when I saw it. While cleaning the stain on my shoulder, I saw a spray pattern of taco sauce on the wall next to the people sitting behind me.

Apologetically, I reached around and cleaned off the wall. If that wasn’t bad enough, the manager came over and asked if everything was alright. I explained to her, as quickly as I could, and made another humorous, lame remark, which I can’t remember. I ask for a couple of takehome boxes and the check.

I came home and planted myself in my chair, which by now I considered my sanctuary from the humiliation of the world outside of my four walls. I’m sure my picture is posted somewhere in the restaurant as a forbidden diner. On the positive side, maybe they’ll replace the packets with a jar of sauce, or at least take taco pizza off the menu.