Knock, Knock. Who’s There? Old Age.

Yesterday, I had an appointment to see Dr. Cracklebone, the orthopedist who has gradually rebuilt my right knee.  The knee has been achy since I subbed for a dance instructor friend last week.

I was pretty active as a kid and over the years managed to break, snap, twist, damage, pull, dislocate, rip, and sprain various body parts and have had more knee surgeries than the chunky man pasted on the Operation game.  I assumed a small piece of cartilage had fractured or maybe there was a problem with my faux tendons: this has happened before. So, I reported to Dr. Frankenstein.

He examined my knee and announced, “It’s arthritis.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We talked about this. With the extent of your injuries, arthritis was going to be an issue later.”

“I thought you meant later as in when I was older.”

He said nothing – the jerk.

After I arrived home, Mr. M asked: “Is it broken again?”

“No, it’s arthritis.”

“Like Granny has!” Ms. Diva exclaimed.


“Yes, like Granny has,” I said and felt a hair turn gray.


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