Pain by Any Other Name

Is still fucking pain

Getting old, older, is looking in the mirror and realizing your grandma was right when she advised you, 35 years ago, to add SPF to your skincare routine. It’s a gradual thing that sneaks up on you until one day you think, well fuck.

It’s also pain. Pain in places that shout “Oh no, Bitch, you will not be doing any more Warrior 2 in this lifetime. In fact, try to sit down cross-legged. Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

I’m at the point where getting into the yoga pose is not the problem, more like, “How the fuck do I get out of this?” So I make sure to do them in places I’m content to hang out for a few hours, hopefully with WiFi.

Lately, I’ve begun to notice a pain in my femur. My upper femur to be specific. It’s usually apparent when I’ve been walking a lot, say 2758 steps or so and it sucks.

I complain about it often.

But I will not complain that my hip hurts. I don’t care if it’s the same thing or not, and for the record, it might not be, I’m just saying.

Declaring I have hip pain puts fewer degrees of separation between me and hip replacement surgery, the next step down the other side of that hill.

And because ‘merica, I’ll have to wait until I’ve reached my deductible to afford to replace my femurs.

Dramatic? Maybe. But once you start having those major joints replaced, you should probably begin choosing a nursing home, excuse me, inpatient rehab facility.

What’s next?

Bed at 9pm and up at 5am for no good reason?

Carrying Werther’s Originals in my pocketbook?

Leaving voicemails?

No thanks. As long as I can text, I’ll deal with the femur pain.

Zoey