Aging Disgracefully

“What brings you in on this rainy day, Ms. Jones”, Leo asked.  I love being greeted personally when I walk into my dry cleaners.  Makes me feel like Norm on Cheers.

“My son’s blazer needs to be cleaned,”   I responded with a smile.  Leo is one of those guys who just has a spirit about him.  He is always happy and quick with a compliment.

“Ms. Jones, you are too young to have boys the ages of your sons,”  he says with a chuckle.

I chuckle too, because he says that every time I drop off my cleaning.   Today, it was especially welcoming as I had a doctor’s appointment with my favorite knee doctor.  I wish I could say something elegant like I was meeting with my plastic surgeon for a consult on my droopy boobs, but sadly, I have injured my right knee.    Yes, for those of you confused, in December I fell and injured my left knee.    Sunday, apparently, as I got up from sitting, I tore my meniscus.   I would love to embellish the story.   I would love to add that I was saving kittens from a burning building or constructing a house for the poor, but I was getting up off my ass to unload the dishwasher.   My knees pop.   I could start a band with the noise my knees make.     So, today, I went to the doctor where an MRI was ordered and he prepared me for the likelihood of another arthroscopic surgery.

So, as I said my goodbyes to Leo, I turned to walk away.  I wanted to appear graceful and prayed that at this moment my knee would not lock up as I sauntered away, but as luck would have it, my youthfulness gave way to a full on limp, which really looked more like me dragging my right leg behind me.  It wasn’t pretty.

While I appear youthful in my mind and face (I hear all the time how beautiful my skin is), I am more aware than ever that my knees have not gotten the memo on how graceful I am aging.   It is as though they have it in for me, which I feel is unjust.  Perhaps, we need counseling to hash out our differences or maybe, the white flag I am waving is enough.

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