‘Liftless’ or just plain ol’ shiftless?

One of the lesser advantages of the surgery I had in March is that I can’t lift anything more than 5 pounds. This has created what we regard in our house as a situation, meaning a critical disagreement between my wife and me over what exactly constitutes 5 pounds. We haven’t engaged in any fistfighting, but the verbal debate is heating up.

For those who tuned in late, I underwent surgery to patch up three aneurysms and was told that, to avoid a hernia, the weightlifting limit had to be imposed for at least six months. I could instantly foresee a liftless life of leisure ahead.

When I told Cinelli about this, she cast me a doubtful look and said, “Just as we’re planning a trip abroad with heavy luggage to be hauled about, you’re suddenly too feeble to help with the bags? No offense, dear, but I don’t trust you.”

“Would I lie about a thing like this?”

“Probably. You’ve always disliked lifting anything heavier than a martini glass.”

“Well, it’s true. I can’t even lift the cat,” I said as Cleveland Cat strode into view. “The fat little feline weighs 8 pounds if he weighs an ounce.”

“You were probably told you couldn’t lift 50 pounds and you knocked off 45 because, forgive me for saying so, you are essentially an indolent person.”

“Don’t take my word for it. Call the doctor. It will probably cost another $200 for telephonic consultation, but that’s OK with me. We can put it on American Express.”

“You’d do anything to avoid taking out the garbage,” she said with a long sigh.

I shrugged and put on my best helpless smile. I am a master at the motherless-child-alone-in-the-snow look. When strangers see that smile, they instantly think: The poor little thing. They change tires for me and give me apples and used clothing and ask if there’s anything else they can do. I say, “No, thank you” in a voice that quavers slightly.

“Don’t use that Little Alice look on me,” Cinelli said. “And you can forget the quavery voice. I’m on to your tricks.”

“What can I say? The doctor’s a highly respected cardiovascular surgeon with a dog and a family and membership on several boards of whatever. As much as I like lifting, I’m afraid I must abide by his orders.” Pause. “Could you move my chair a little closer to the desk? I have work to do.”

“Surely you can move a chair?”

“Due to the medical advice of my physician, I cannot ... “

She interrupted. “I have an idea. Get down on your hands and knees and shove it along with your nose. How’s that!”

“Well, at least you can hand me that encyclopedia.”

“An encyclopedia does not weigh more than 5 pounds.”

“I think it does. Why take chances with my health? If you want to go on vacation, we have to protect my insides.”

She smiled sweetly. “You’re going to lose your insides if you keep this up, dear.”

She put the book on a postal scale. It weighed 3 pounds. “I want you to take this scale, put it on a table and check anything the weight of which you doubt.”

“First,” I said, test-lifting the scale, “we have to weigh the scale itself. I suspect it is more than 5 pounds.”

She left the room and returned with a bag of sugar. “This,” she said, putting it in my arms, “is 5 pounds. Anything lighter than that you can lift.”

“Sugar,” I said authoritatively, “has an entirely different density than, say, garbage. I read that in the Sugar Packer’s Monthly Medical Journal.”

“Five pounds is 5 pounds, whether it’s sugar, garbage or the cat. And if you doubt any one bag of garbage is over 5 pounds, put it on the scale. I will personally move the scale into the dining room and place it in full view for your convenience.”

“But suppose you’re not here? Who’s going to lift the garbage onto the scale to see if it weighs more than 5 pounds? If it does and I personally lift it onto the scale, there go my guts, and it’s no trip abroad until I heal.”

That did it. I’m home safe. I no longer take out the garbage, lift the cat or bring groceries in from the car, unless it’s like a half-gallon of milk (4 pounds), two loaves of rye bread (2 pounds) or 10 rolls of paper towels (2 pounds, 6 ounces).

I sure hope I’m well enough in September to lift things again. I mean, this could go on (Little Alice Smile) for years. The cat alone weighs 5 1/2 pounds.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He’s at al.martinez@latimes.com.