I don’t like to talk about myself much (waits patiently for everyone to wipe their monitors and keyboards free of spewed beverages) but after reading and commenting on the blog Maid’s Day Off with this gem:
Those beasts hammering on your joints are visiting me, too, and I would appreciate it if you would keep them at home. Or at least send them with an oil can.
I decided to come clean, too. I am of a “particular” age whereby getting up from the comfy couch requires the mandatory “ready, get set, go” rocking and rolling accompanied by the inevitable groan. (What is it with knees, anyway?) In fact, we’re sort of shopping for a new couch and everyone gets to plop their fannies on the potential behemoth. While they’re all snuggling in to new cushions and pillowbacks, I’m cautiously determining the distance from the floor to the knees. It’s like looking into a pool to eyeball how deep it really is. The sitting is fine, especially if there’s some lovely support on the lower back region, and armrests that are flat float my boat, too. But getting up? Oy.
Wouldn’t you think our feet would be the body parts that would fail first? Since our first year being alive we’ve been trotting around on those things, pounding them on pavements, squeezing them into shoes that are too tight (but look really really good), stubbing them into chairs and bed frames and doors, getting blisters and bee stings and mosquito bites and stepping on glass, and they just keep rolling along.
Knees pretty much stay covered (on me, anyway) with slacks, long skirts, dresses, capris, pajamas, etc. There’s no real hazard to being a knee except when your children are little and you have to get down to their level for so many things like tying shoes and applying bandaids and giving baths…or if you’re a guy and getting down on one to propose. All they really do is get you to stand up or sit down. That’s not so hard, is it? Our fingers get much more use than knees and my finger joints are not screaming when I’m typing or knitting or shoveling food in my pie hole. My shoulders don’t protest anytime I shrug and for all those years I had a phone tucked into the shoulder you’d think they would, but no, they just soldier on and do what I ask.
Knees. Why you gotta be like that?