Category Archives: Middle Age/Aging

Hormones vs. Hormones

ffe61ed5d3823bd618d504fd8ee29978

I woke up in a bad mood this morning. A real bad mood. Even the text to my mother was full of venom. I’m pretty sure she was praying. Thanking the good Lord that she was 639.59 miles away. Safely tucked away in the sweet plains of The South.

I don’t know why I woke up this way. I just did. It happens. So, when I told The Kid to empty the dishwasher, she replied through gritted teeth with a “PLEEEASSSE???” You know, the kind of “please” you say to your two year old when she demands a lollipop.

This was probably not the best day to get snarky on me. Peri-menopausal women are a force to be reckoned with. “Force” as in an Uzi With A Vagina. But what does she know? She’s only 16. So much to learn. Poor thing.

What was my reply? “I don’t think so, child. This is your chore. Why I feel the need to remind you to do your chore is beyond me. So no, I will NOT SAY PLEASE!”

When she was done with her chore, I told her she had an attitude and that I didn’t like it. “Mom, can I say something to you?” she asked.

The previous night I was at the high school for a seminar. It was about drug awareness. Three kids from our town came to speak about their drug and alcohol addictions. A child professional got up and spoke for a bit. One of the things he said is to listen to your child. Never dismiss her.

Usually when I am in this type of foul mood, I would say something really stupid and completely against what all child development people would recommend saying. They would not only cringe at my reaction, but would probably have my kid in some kind of therapy for the next 20 years.

When I am in this mood, it would sound something like this: “no, you can’t say anything because whatever you say right now will not help you. Now go upstairs and get ready for school.” But I didn’t. I stopped and I thought before I spoke. I know, this is a shocker. My mouth is usually louder and faster than my brain.

“Yes, you may.” I nearly had a heart attack at my own reaction. “Mom, why is it every time YOU’RE in a bad mood, we have to suffer?” I looked around for DH. So sure he was hiding in the shadows with a $20 bill.

I was rendered speechless. This is the second “attack” I’ve had from my family in a week. I use the word “attack” loosely. It was more like an awakening. The first time, when we were in the car going somewhere, it was what I like to refer to as a “come to Jesus” meeting. Except I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. “We think you are going through menopause and we don’t like it. You’ve kind of been mean lately.”

They were as nice as they could be about it. But I sit here thinking about these occurrences. Yes, I have been pretty bitchy around here. Not always. I’m not one of those raging lunatics who should probably be committed. But I have my moments. Perhaps a little more than less lately.

And I know why. Sure, hormones play a part in it. I was born hormonal. You should have seen me as a teen. Think Regan without the complete head turn. Damned as I tried, I could only get my head to go 3/4 of the way around.

I haven’t been taking care of myself as well as I should. I stopped exercising. Exercise plays a huge part in feeling good. It’s got something to do with endorphins. Endorphins are your best friend. But I digress.

Whatever the reason, it’s not a good enough one to treat the people you love the most in this world the worst. No, I seem to save my best mood for everyone else. Friends, strangers, people who I try too hard with.

So, in my eye-opening last two weeks, I’ve decided that I need to lighten up on the closest people to me — my family. I can still be great to my friends. Kind to strangers. Civil to everyone else.

I’m going to save my good energy for my people. The people who, even though I act like Sybil at times, still love me back and never give up on me. Even in my peri-menopausal semi-crazed rage.

With that being said, we are still allowed to get upset with our children when they don’t listen. When they don’t do what we ask them to do. Perhaps I don’t need to spit blood, but I can be a little exasperated. And I’ll try to keep the Regan to a minimum. I promise.

Knee Bone Connected To…Arthritis?

gel knee

Yeah I know. I could benefit from a tan.

“Arthritis?  What the heck do you mean arthritis?”  Those were the words I uttered from my fat mouth when the nice physician’s assistant came in to inject the first of five doses of gel into my broken knee.  When I was signing that little form that they make you sign informing you of the possible side effects, I saw the word “arthritis” at the top.  So, I surmised that people who need this gel injection have arthritis.  My suspicions were confirmed when I inquired.  I should have quit while I thought I was ahead.

So, here I am.  At the age of 47 and already suffering from droopy eye syndrome so badly that I fear going completely blind by way of my own eyelids (is that why I need reading glasses?).  I have sporadic hairs growing out of my chin.  I’m thinning out down below (when I say “down below” I’m not exactly talking about my toe hair).  The backs of my hands have a city map running through them.  My memory lasts about as long as a teenage boy embarking on his first romp.  I forgot to mention the gray that just about exceeds the natural color (whatever that is) on my head, my sudden desire for stock in the company that makes Depends and the crows feet that look more like the feet of a pterodactyl.  So, now you tell me I have arthritis of the knee?

I’m over it.  This aging thing royally bites.  Although I don’t really think I’m that old.  In case you didn’t hear me, I’m only 47.  Forty-seven.  XLVII (yes, I looked that up).  I exercise.  I eat healthy.  Sure I have a glass(es) of wine a night and maybe a potato chip or two from time to time.  But really?  Give me a break.

It’s cool.  I’m embracing it.  Well, kinda.   When I’m not overcome with a panic attack of epic proportions that includes downing a glass of Metamucil while watching an episode of The Golden Girls.  Really.  I’m okay with it.  I may look and feel 86 but I act 16.  That’s all that matters.  Right?

Most Ridiculous Inconvenience Part 2

mri sign

I had another MRI the other day (click here if you missed my first one).  Because it’s been 6 months since my meniscus surgery and I am still suffering from knee pain.  The kind of pain that takes me twice the amount of time to climb a set of stairs.  Last time I checked I am a person, not a sloth.  Although I do have to admit to feeling like a sloth at times.  But that’s a whole other problem.  All I can say is I promise you I know what it feels like to be 96.  And it sucks so bad.

Anyway, this was my second MRI ever and I am a total expert by now.  Here is what I noticed this time around:

  • Why do they give you that questionnaire thingy when they don’t even look at it?  How did I know they didn’t look at it?  Because the guy re-asked me the questions.  Like I was lying the first time.  Yes, that’s what it was.  I was lying.  On second thought, I do have some shrapnel in my body.  My bad.
  • It is confirmed to me that I have adult ADD when I do something like this:  not listen to a thing the nice man is telling me when I have to get dressed for my procedure.  “Put on these pants and then….”  “Did I turn off the oven?  Wait.  What?”  Ok, so do I put the gown opening in the front or the back?  Did he even say I had to put it on?  Hello?  I’m having my knee x-rayed.  Not my boobs.  Pay attention, pay attention…ooh, a squirrel.

    Me with the gown opened in the back that I didn't need

    Me with the gown that I didn’t need.  Opening in the back.

  • Thank you for the pretty picture of the beach you put on the ceiling.  Too bad that by the time you roll me into the machine it is behind me.  And because you said I couldn’t move, I had to roll my eyeballs all the way up practically into my head so I could enjoy it.  Except I totally looked like I was either having a seizure or a bad drug experience.
  • How come when The Kid had her MRI on her foot, they let her choose the radio station?  Is it because I look like an old hag and they just assumed that I wanted easy listening?  Aren’t they breaking some kind of Equal Opportunity laws or something?
  • Apparently, Barry Manilow is the go-to guy for MRI’s.  Except instead of singing to Mandy, he actually sang to me.  I know this because he said, “this one’s for you.”  Thanks Barry.  You the man.  Well, the MRI man, anyway.
  • Why do the most itches happen when you can’t move?  I could go all day without noticing an itch.  But when instructed not to move for 25 minutes?  It’s like a spider had babies on my ankle and all her little spider babies made their way all the way up to my ear.  What is that?
  • I suddenly remembered a time when someone I knew had to have a test and they couldn’t swallow. “Okay Mo, don’t swallow.  You can do this.”  Oh, wait.  What am I doing?  I’m here for an MRI.  Right?  Squirrel.
  • Oh God, I’m gonna sneeze.  Ooh, remember a long time ago that trapeze family fell to their deaths while doing a circus act because one of the members sneezed?  That was terrible.  But that won’t happen to me.  Honestly, the only thing I’m worried about is the keys flying off the wall and stabbing me in the brain.  It could happen.

So my prognosis?  Something about the cartilage not healing all the way so I need to have some gel injections until it does heal.  Whatever.  Just as long as they don’t have to cut me open again.  I can’t take any more old lady knee.  Not that there is anything wrong with old lady knee.  But I’m not ol…oh, never mind.

 

Today Is Your Birthday…I Mean MY Birthday

Hey all!  Today is my birthday.  Yup.  April 6.  Besides me, Paul Rudd, Candace Cameron, Bill Dee Williams, Marilu Henner, John Ratzenberger and a whole bunch of people I’ve never even heard of also have a birthday today.  All my life I thought I shared a birthday with Houdini, but I just found out I don’t.  That’s embarrassing.  I also share my birthday with a couple of friends, which is totally cool but not.  Get your own birthday!  JK.

So, I’m 47.  Or as my sweet dad likes to say, “you’re in your 48th year.”  Thanks dad.  I can officially say that I am in my late 40’s.  Although I would really prefer not to say that ever.  I don’t know why.  I feel good, I’m in a good mental state (well, most of the time), I’m fairly happy with the way I look (Except my eyelids.  They droop so bad, it looks like I’m sleep walking.  When did that happen?).  I’m doing something I absolutely and completely love, love, love.  So, what’s my problem?

I’m almost 50.  Sure, you may think it’s not a big deal.  And on the large scale, it isn’t.  It’s just a number.  I need to embrace it.  Sure, okay.  I will.  But first I need to say this:  Like my eyelids, WHEN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN?  And freak that.  It is a big deal.  Holy Hell.  I’m almost 50.

Just yesterday I was 19, when I met my husband-to-be.  DH had a grandmother (she lived to be 99 — love and miss you Mem).  She was in her seventies when I met her.  I used to say, “Oh, I’ve got plenty of time before I’m that old.”  Well, guess what?  I’m closer to there than I care to admit.  I barely remember the first half of my life it whizzed by so fast.  That is what scares me.

Why do I think about it so much?  Because.  There is stuff happening to me that makes it quite apparent that I am aging.  How is a girl supposed to NOT think about it when…

  1. I swear, I lose an inch of height a year.  At my tallest, I stood at five feet five and three quarters of an inch.  Now?  Let’s just say The Kid absolutely LOOMS over me.  I can’t even post a picture of us on Facebook without someone making that “are you kneeling?” comment.  My name is Mo and I am shrinking.  There, I said it.
  2. I think that's Broadway running along there

    I think that’s Broadway running along there

    The backs of my hands look like a road map of Manhattan.  Where did you say you wanted to go?  Madison and 37th?  Oh, here it is.  Right beneath my left ring finger.  Kind of convenient, wouldn’t you say?  No.

  3. Every morning when I get out of bed, I have more aches and pains than an athlete who just finished a marathon followed by the Iron Man.  No, actually, I think I hurt more than that.  It takes me a good 10 minutes to loosen up in the morning.  I may need a cane soon to get me to the bathroom so I can go pee.
  4. Speaking of pee…when I go, it doesn’t stop.  I think it stops.  But it doesn’t.  I have been known to leave a lovely trail to the shower (follow the yellow pee road).  I’m sorry.  I can’t help it.  All the Kegels in the world don’t help.
  5. Holding my arms out to read something no longer works.  I don’t really want to talk about it.  Let’s just say there are a pair of readers in every room of my house, in my car, pocketbook and on my head at all times.
  6. My eyelids are just about reaching my boobs.  Which is pretty bad because my boobs are now half way down my stomach.  They haven’t quite reached the belly button though.  And for this I am grateful.

    There is that damn perpetual eyeglass mark on my nose.  #11 why getting old sucks.

    There is that damn perpetual eyeglass mark on my nose. #11 why getting old sucks.

  7. I call everyone under the age of 40, a “kid.”
  8. I think my hair has more gray than blonde.  But I wouldn’t really know because I hide it with highlights.  In fact, I don’t even know what my real hair color is anymore.  And I have a feeling I should continue to stay in the dark about that for as long as I possibly can.
  9. I graduated high school 28 years ago.  When The Kid graduates, I may be going to my 30th reunion.  Oh Dear God.
  10.  When you start running at the age of 46 and need knee surgery less than 8 months later, then maybe you shouldn’t start running at the age of 46.

I think that’s enough.  Today is a happy day.  Today is my birthday.  So what that I may have to start adding Metamucil to my wine.  Mentally, I feel like I’m 15.  A 15 year old with a short term memory problem.  Whatever.  It could be worse.  My boobs could be hanging down to my belly button.

Peri-Menopause: Nature’s Gift to Global Warming

peri-menopause

On my Facebook page last week, I mentioned that I wear baby doll pajamas to bed.  Even in the dead of winter.  That’s because if I don’t, I run the risk of death by drowning.

When I got my first night sweat, I wasn’t sure what was happening to me.  I thought maybe I had a bad nightmare.  I was drenched.  Like someone doused me with salt water.  I actually had a puddle right where my boobs meet.  My head was as wet as if I just came out of the shower.  And the sheet under me?  It was more like a Slip ‘N Slide.

I was relieved to discover that this didn’t happen very often.  Just once in a while.  I could totally handle it.  That was about 3 years ago.  Recently, it has decided to kick itself up a notch.  Including the hot flashes.  You know the ones.  Where you swear someone lit a match to your insides and started a bon fire?  Yeah.  Those.  And in the last 3 weeks my night sweats have produced enough water to create a small sea.

I was told that I was in peri-menopause.  Peri-menopause?  What the hell?  I can’t be going through that already.  I’m only thirt — oh — 46.  And I’m not sure who told me.  Was it my doctor?  A friend?  My mother?  I don’t know.  Because one of the other symptoms of peri-menopause is…ummm.  Hmm.  That’s funny, I don’t remember.

Even if you just started hanging around me, you quickly get the idea that I’m freaked out by the whole aging process.  The changes to my body is completely throwing me for a loop.  I mean, I don’t mind being in my forties.  I feel like I’m all mature and stuff.  Mature.  Something I’ve been trying to achieve since 1987.  But really.  Can’t the Age Fairy just leave my body alone?  What did I ever do to her?

So, Age Fairy.  You are a meany.  Here’s what I say to you:  this old age may cause me rage but sweat and mood swings will never hurt me.  Nanny-nanny boo-boo.

 

Why Being 40-Something is Awesome

glasses on headSo, maybe “awesome” is a strong word here.  But being in my 40’s isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  I was inspired to write about this subject by a post I saw the other day.  The blogger wrote a list of 40 reasons why being 40-something is better than being 20-something.  And it got me thinking about my own reasons why the 40’s are better than the 20’s.  I couldn’t come up with 40 exactly, so 10 will have to do.  Here’s what I think.  Tread lightly.

  1. You don’t need to bring your ID with you everywhere.  Believe me.  I don’t care how young you think you look.  You will not get carded.  Unless the bartender is trying for an extra tip.  But for me, that doesn’t work.  Because I know he is trying for an extra tip.
  2. We are smarter.  See number one.
  3. When I was in my 20’s, I would beg, borrow and steal to get you to like me.  Now?  I don’t really give a damn, Scarlet.  Unless your name is DH.  Cuz I want him to like me.  Otherwise I’d be divorced.
  4. I would rather die than admit that I needed glasses to read.  Today?  You can find me at any given time with 3 pairs sitting on top of my head.  It’s really quite cute.  And oh so convenient.
  5. People take you a little more seriously.  And I can act like a dumb ass around young people and they can’t say anything because it would be totally disrespectful.  It’s so much fun to see The Kid’s friends squirm or the young people at My Retail Job give me that “you’re so weird” look.  I should be embarrassed.  But I’m not.
  6. I can, and have, answered the door in my robe and slippers and am surprisingly fine with it.  Now the person at my door?  That may be a different story.  I see soap to the eyes in their near future.
  7. When I was in my 20’s, you would never, ever catch me singing out loud in my car to myself.  Ever.  Now?  Not only will I sing out loud and proud, but I may even roll down my windows for all to enjoy.  Consider that my gift to you.  You’re welcome.
  8. As a 40-something year old woman, I am more confident, sure and wise.  Honestly.  You couldn’t pay me a million bucks to go back there.  Well, actually.  It would be really great if my ass still looked that good.  Or was at least in the place it was intended to be.  Because I am completely freaked out by what happened to it.  I think I need a bra for my butt.  A Butt Bra.
  9. I have no problem with being accountable for my actions.  Back then I would throw every Tom, Dick and Harry under the bus to save my ass.  Oh wait.  I thought I was supposed to be smarter?
  10. I am so incredibly at ease with my partner.  I will walk around naked in the light.  Tell him what I think.  Burp out loud.  And poop with the bathroom door open.  Ok, actually that last one is a lie.  That’s just gross.

So, that’s about it.  For Now.  Maybe there will be a Part II because surely there are many, many more reasons why being 46 is better than being 26, right?  Can you think of any?  Let me know.  Because it has got to be better than this.  Maybe.

Everything Gets Old. Everything.

Unknown-1

That’s a dried up peach. Get your head out of the gutter.

Attention all women.  Guess what we have to look forward to as we age?  Besides wrinkles.  And gray hairs.  And flabby skin.  And age spots.  And facial hair.  And toe hair.  And nose hair.  And memory loss.  And menopause.  And dryness.  And baldness.  Ooh, I got a little carried away there.  Sorry about that.  Apparently, there’s a new ailment in town.  Well, perhaps it’s not new per se.  I’m sure it’s been around since the beginning of time but no one felt comfortable about talking about it.  Until now.

It’s called Vaginal Atrophy.  Yup.  You got it.  The walls of your vagina can dry up from underuse.  You heard me right.  Underuse.  If you do not use your vagina, it can have the potential of drying up like the Sahara.  Or like old rubber left out in the sun too long.  And there are side effects that come along with this dryness.  Just think bread but not as nice.  Gross me out the door and gag me with a spoon. (There’s some ’80’s slang for you.  To prove I’m not old.  Oh wait, actually that proves that I AM old, doesn’t it?  Never mind.)

How do I know this?  Because my poor mother suffers from it.  She’s been suffering from the effects of it for months.  Months.  I had to listen to her complain about it for months.  Do you understand?  This is almost as bad as when I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night when I was 13, only to find my dad skipping around the living room in his heart covered briefs.  Okay, maybe that was worse.  Okay, that probably was worse.  Okay, that was worse. She didn’t know what it was. No amount of Monistat was curing it.  No amount.  I’m pretty sure the woman bought enough of that crap to put a down payment on a vacation home.

Anyway, her good doctor said it was from underuse.  When she told me, I was overcome with all sorts of emotions.  My amusement turned to disgust.  Which turned to disbelief.  Which then turned to full on panic.  Because I do not want to have vaginal walls of cracked shoe leather.  Like, I don’t worry enough already about getting old.

So, in a nutshell, if you don’t use your vagina, you could possibly suffer from vaginal atrophy.  Can you imagine?  What?  Are we supposed to have sex until we are 80?  I mean, sex is great and all.  But I’m guessing after 60+ years, I may be wanting a break.  Does anyone hear what I’m saying?  I mean, how hot will I look in a maid’s outfit at that age?  After all, if I’m still doing it at 80, I’m going to have to get creative.  Sorry for the visual.  But the truth sometimes hurts.  How would you get in the mood?  I’m talking about you.  Not your husband/significant other/partner.  Because men can go for forever.  They are like the Energizer Bunny crossed with Tony Randall.

It does give sex a whole new meaning though.  “Hey honey,  get ready.  We have some vaginal wall drying-up prevention to do.”  Mmm.  Romantic.  I’ll grab the petroleum.

Nelly vs Nellie

I’m always bitching about my age.  How old I feel (not act, there is a difference.).  How old I look.  How old I am.  But what really confirms all of the above is this…

When someone commented on Facebook about Nelly being in a Honey Nuts Cheerios commercial, I got so excited I almost peed my pants.  Honestly, I felt like a little kid on Christmas morning.  “OMG!  Nelly is doing a commercial?”  You know who I’m talking about.  The saucy little rich brat from Little House on the Prairie.  Which, by the way, is one of my favorite TV shows OF ALL TIME.  Just so you know, it’s still in syndication and I will tune in if I spy it with my little eye on one of the ten thousand television stations available these days.

Anyway, I was anxious to see how she looks after all these years.  So, I didn’t waste any time going to Youtube and looking it up.  Here it is people:

Number One:  I thought Nelly was going to pop in at the last second.  It took me 30.5 seconds to realize she wasn’t.  And that I had the wrong “guy.”

Number Two:  The correct spelling of Nelly’s name from Little House is NELLIE.

Number Three:  Who the hell is this Nelly?  Does he play sports?  Act?  Sing?  I guess he’ll just get added to my list of “who the hell is that” and I’ll have to move on.  Where oh where are the Robert Redfords and Debra Wingers of the world?  Sigh.

 

Knee Deep

knee surgery

Before, During and After

The day was perfect for surgery.  Rainy, windy, disgusting.  Perfect.  Perfect for me to lie around sleeping off my anesthesia.  Which, I have to say was awesome!  The anesthesia, I mean.  Honestly, I’m so glad I didn’t cave to peer pressure when I was a teen.   Because there would have been a problem.  A serious problem.

I woke up at 5:30.  Because I had to pee.  But I didn’t get up to pee because I was too lazy.  So I laid there thinking that in less than 3 hours a surgeon would be cutting little holes in my knee.  A knee that I’ve always liked.  A knee that on our second date, DH commented on how cute it was.  I was wearing shorts.  Get your head out of the gutter.  But I wasn’t nervous.  The morning of my hysterectomy I was like a child gripping the doorway.  Kicking and screaming.  Not wanting to go.  But this definitely was less invasive.  And if I survived one bout of anesthesia, I knew I would survive another.

The nurses were super, super nice.  A little too nice, actually.  I was hoping for a bit of a Nurse Ratchet so I had something to talk about.  But, no.  It didn’t happen that way.  I got to change in an area where the only thing separating me from all the other patients was a curtain.  “Everything off except your undies.  Gown, opening in back.  Robe, opening in front.”  I’m just glad I opted for the grannies with a touch of lace instead of my usual thongs.  The entire Operating Room probably didn’t need to see my ass cheeks.  Which, by the way, no amount of running makes those suckers go up to where they were once upon a time.

They asked me the same questions over and over again.  I signed my life away a million times over and told them they better try to save my life if I die.  Okay, I didn’t say that.  But I did say I would have a blood transfusion.  That’s the same thing, right?

They wheeled me into a room.  A room they take you to before you go to the Operating Room.  Again, only separated by a curtain from the other patients.  It was like a cattle call or something.  Then the party began.  The needle containing what I could only describe as liquid heaven was inserted into the back of my hand.  “Ooh, I like this, I wouldn’t mind having a little of this every day, I don’t seem to care about a thing” was the last comment I remember saying to the doctor.  Or was it a nurse?  I don’t know.  They were all starting to look the same to me.

What seemed like 30 seconds went by.  The first face I saw was my doctor’s.  Asking if I was okay.  But boy did I feel good.  I’m sure I said something silly or stupid because that’s what I do.  But I guess I’ll never know.  Which makes me kinda sad.  They should let you record these things.  Really.  I’m not kidding.  I wonder if someone would have taken notes if I asked them?  This shall be one of my biggest regrets.

So, here I am.  With my downloaded Cow Bell app, having DH wait on me.  He’s being a very good servant man.  I’m sure by the end of this weekend, I will be on his last nerve.  But until then, a little higher to the left honey, oh and would you be a prince and fetch me a bucket.  This Vicodin makes me feel like I’m going to vomit.  Because my nerve block wore off and I’m not feeling so great anymore.  Where’s that Liquid Heaven when I need it?

I Have Been a Very Naughty Girl…er, Old Lady

Maxine and exercise

I have decided that I am being punished.  I am being punished because I started taking care of myself at this stage in my life.  And it’s not just me.  I know a few people in the same age bracket who are being punished for the same exact thing.  And it sucks.

I have never had a real injury in my life.  I’ve scraped a knee from falling, because I’m a klutz.  I’ve bumped my head by forgetting to duck while entering my car, because I’m forgetful.  I’ve burned myself on the oven rack because, well, I’m an idiot and didn’t use a potholder.  But I have never had an injury that is incurred by being an athlete.  Because I never did a sport in my life (except track team, age 14, one season).  Sure, I did aerobics in the 80’s, but who didn’t?  And besides, that doesn’t count.  It was more about who had the cutest thong with matching scrunchy socks.

I received a text the other day from a friend who is also a runner, among other things.  She’s been really working it to get into shape.  She’s about my age.  She was diagnosed with bursitis.  Bursitis!  Probably because she has been weight training.  The poor girl.  All she’s guilty of is trying to sculpt her body.  Because she wants to be healthy.  And look good.  Like me.  So when we go through menopause, we can be ahead of the game and avoid that ugly meno-gut.  That damn ugly meno-gut.

About 2 months into running, I started experiencing pain in my left knee.  It hurt a little.  But I still ran.  No biggy.  Then I injured it at work.  And still ran.  Then I stopped running for a day or two because it hurt.  Then I slipped on water in the kitchen and twisted that mo-fo knee.  Then I went for a run after a couple of days of rest. Then I tripped on something at My Retail Job.  Now the stupid thing just hurts.  All the time.

I went to the orthopedic guy the other day.  To get to the bottom of this situation.  I need an MRI because the x-rays can’t see a damn thing.  Thanks for the shot of radiation for no reason, doc.  Then he said some nonsense about it possibly being a torn meniscus or something along those lines.  I stopped listening when I heard “meniscus.”   Just so you know, they don’t repair themselves.  All the “resting” in the world will not help.

So, I started riding my bike.  My big, fat mountain bike.  On the road.  The one with cobwebs and a gear shift that gets stuck.  The one that literally hasn’t been used since 1997.  But it’s exercise.  Because I’ll be damned if I let a little ripped meniscus stop me from taking care of myself.  And gaining 25 pounds back.  No freaking way.  I would rather eat cow poo while swinging from a 46 foot high tree limb.  Ain’t happening.  And just so you know, I’m going running with my Bursitis friend this week.  Screw you meniscus.  Screw you Bursitis.  Try to stop us.