It would seem that I’ve crippled myself. For awhile I’ve complained of a trick knee that is aggravated at the onset of a rain shower. Or excessive humidity. (Like my hair issues weren’t painful enough.) Now the knee is just angry all the time. I’m pretty sure the injury (and I’m using air quotes even though you can’t see me) occurred a couple of years or so ago when I fell over the open dishwasher.
A spectacular sight.
Thankfully, I’m the sort of anal retentive person that makes certain the knives ARE POINTING DOWN. Otherwise, I’d have a good deal more to complain about.
The only other plausible explanation is simply OLD AGE, or that I’ve inherited my mother and her mother’s rheumatoid arthritis. I refuse to accept either of those diagnosis, as that just puts me one painful step closer to membership to the AARP.
I’ll go with the dishwasher catastrophe. It is slightly easier on my ego. What little research I’ve done has led me to believe that placing an ice compress for 10 minutes, three times a day is better than heat. But really, if I had 30 minutes to just sit around, I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this mess in the first place.
I’m also wearing an attractive neon blue knee brace, which just serves to remind me not to attempt a spontaneous cartwheel for the sake of my children. And not to try to sit on my foot on those rare instances when I actually get to, you know, sit down.
Last week I decided that I just needed to suck it up and hit the gym. I did 45 minutes of cardio, between the elliptical, bike, and treadmill. I cried the entire next day. And may or may not have taken more than the recommended daily allowance of Extra Strength Tylenol.
Determined, I went to the gym again on Monday. Meeting up with my SIL. Who made the mistake of directing me to the bicycle thingy that you pedal with your hands. “That’s the one that the old people do,” she whispered. And sure enough, there seated on the bikes were gym patrons none of whom were younger than 90. With their walkers blocking the aisle.
I kicked her with my good leg, muttered “over my cold dead body,” and limped away.
Wherein I made peace with the treadmill, and we spent the next 30 minutes getting re-acquainted. At a slow and steady pace. And one benefit to my predicament? When you reek of Ben-Gay, you have the machines on either side of you pretty to yourself.
I then ventured over to the arm weight machines, but was quickly reminded that I had just the day before taken up stationary badminton with the family. And I could not raise my left arm over my head.
Caution: My stray body parts are going to begin falling off and littering the floor. Just step over me.
I know what you’re thinking. Go to the doctor and get it over with. But I’m not falling for that one. More than one person has already warned me that a pimply medical practitioner will come at my knee with a 17 inch long needle to perform a little procedure known as “just draining off a little fluid.”
No thank you. I’ll continue to suffer in semi-silence.
And while I’m all worked up, DEAR GOVERNMENT, WHILE YOU’RE YET AGAIN REVAMPING THE HEALTH BILL, GO AHEAD AND INCLUDE WORKERS COMP FOR MIDDLE AGED HOUSEWIVES. Sincerely, Meemaw.
I mean really, how many times have you sliced open your finger all in the name of a recipe? Or slipped on a Polly Pocket accessory and lay sprawled out on the bathroom floor for what seems like an eternity? Or suffered the humiliation of getting a parcheesi dice stuck up your nose while demonstrating for the sake of your toddler, the dangers of placing objects into an orifice? Just sayin’.
Before I got married and had children, I thought that I would be wiling away my hours watching my stories on TV while popping bonbons. I had no idea this job was fraught with so much danger. The brochures were indeed misleading.
And to think, my mother wanted me to be an attorney.