My hip hurts.
That’s why I’m wearing the unfortunate shoes.
If you must know, it all started when my mom had knee replacement. Suddenly, my knees hurt something awful.
“I think I need a replacement!” I said.
Not long after, my whole right side started going to pot.
I know this because in yoga, when everyone else was sitting pretty, half of me refused to lay prone. Which is another way of saying, the left side rests like a pro while the right side juts up heavenward.
Naturally, I figured I had to amputate.
And just as naturally, I refusniked to go to a “regular” doctor.
But after acupuncture and shiatsu did nada, a very rational friend told me to go to an orthopedic doctor.
Have you ever experienced the confusion and ill-treatment that is Israeli medicine? I will spare you the details.
All I’ll say is after the orthopedic doctor saw nothing unusual in my x-rays, he wrote me a permission slip to spend half the day at the hospital, having dye injected into me and having my bones examined.
“What did he say about your shoes?” asked my yoga teacher. He has something against the very cute, red sandals I wear everywhere.
“But they’re Dansko!” I always say, which somehow in my mind means they are good for me.
In fact, the orthopedic doctor merely glanced at my cute, red shoes and said, “Wear what’s comfortable for you.”
This did not go over well at yoga. The teacher and a classmate groaned in disapproval.
And then my yoga teacher wagged his finger at me and told me to wear sneakers for a month.
“Do you know what that will do to my social life?” I asked, horrified.
“Do you know what the alternative will do to your body?” was his response.
My firm friend, B, had another take. “Women carry their sorrow in their hips,” she said.
And so I had a dilemma.
To run around town looking cute from my head to my ankles, but looking orthopedic from my ankles down – or to let my sorrow destroy my hip?
I put on the sneakers.
By day two, in the heat, I wanted to hurl those puppies out the window. Oh to wear flip flops again! And cute, red sandals that I thought were good for me.
Bored out of your cotton pickin’ mind? Wondering if you can get your money back? “What does this have to do with your love life, Abigail?” you ask, picking up a copy of Dentures: A Users Manuel, and giving me the finger.
What can I say?
I’m getting old.
I’ve taken to wearing a giant hat and oversized sunglasses, and not because I think I’m Jackie O.
I’m afraid of wrinkles.
Plus, I can’t move so well anymore on account of all the love making I’ve been doing.
Who’s going to ravish an old lady in the pair of New Balance sneakers and thick running socks, anyway?
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