Normally he would be all over the puns, except now he's distracted by the realization that he might not even be able to actually perform any of those puns for like the next week or so. And though he's more physically fit compared to the average man his age, he's still no spring chicken, even if his brain still pretty much operates at an adolescent level.

Wincing, he straightens up, one hand pressed to the small of his back, and he gives her a sidelong look. He's weighing his options.

"I'm fine," he stubbornly insists, except of course, he obviously isn't. "Mind over matter, that's all. Mind over matter."

Right. So, take two.

Grab the reins, grab the mane, grab the saddle.

Foot up in the stirrup (Ow).

A couple of hops for momentum (Jeezus Christ, ow).

He pauses his efforts and glances over his shoulder.




"Um. Okay. I could maybe use a little boost."