Old lady knees, that’s what I’ve got.
And a job that has me on my feet reminds me of it!
At 58, I’m no spring chicken, ’tis true. For my age, I’m in good shape. Not overweight. Agile, flexible, strong, ‘specially for my petite size. Swim regularly but I enjoy other sports too. To my overall fitness I attribute a lifetime of being a quite active tomboy. I’ve neither a couch potato mindset no gene in me!
Still, life happens. Things wear out even if given the best of care or attention. And as any Not-Spring-Chicken person’ll tell ya, the joints are one of the first in the human body to the show wear-and-tear of the years.
So it is that I’m on my feet at my new job — Day 1 yesterday. Still not ready to reveal what that job is (see prior post). Embarrassment ‘n’ shame ‘n’ all that.
Clearly what it *isn’t* is an office job where I’m seated in front of a computer all day! Obvious clue: being on the feet.
So after four hours, my feet were hurting. Tired. Fatigued. But it was the knees that were really feeling the heat and pressure. Not exactly buckling … but given another hour or two, they woulda been!
I kept flexing & bending slightly at the knees as I stood doing my task to relieve the pressure and discomfort. Nothing really worked — except the end to the work day!
I RUSHED to the pool — just enough time remaining to get a swim in before it closed! I flew outta those shoes and dashed across the parking lot and into the YMCA barefoot so fast that I could’ve been mistaken for an Olympic sprinter!
Well, maybe that’s a stretch.
Point is, I wanted OUTTA those shoes and OFF my feet and the gentle soothing waters that awaited were a perfect antidote!
When I got home, I was starving so hastened up a dinner. My knees were reluctant to participate. They wanted rest. They wanted NOT to be standing at a kitchen counter while I patted hamburger, chopped onion and stirred black-eyed peas and mustard greens in a saucepan. They yearned to rest and recover stretched out on a bed.
Still, they obliged me in my need for nourishment.
Speaking of food, I learned something interesting at Day One at the job.
Work 4 hours, get a 10-minute break.
Work 8 hours, get another 10 minute break.
It’s not until you work 12 … yes, *12* … hours that you get a 30-minute food break!
That’s not gonna be me, I’ll tell ya right now!
Anyways, back to the knees.
They possibly swelled somewhat from the stress.
They complained humbly, reminding: “We’re no spring chicken and neither are you!”
They lavished in the single short break before exclaiming: “Wait, 10 minutes is over already?!? That went FAST!”
I wrote in yesterday’s post that I’m doing the job of a teenager.
And it’s true.
And when I wrote that, I wasn’t even thinking of my old lady’s knees! They’re no longer 16 … 26 or even 36!
So I’m gonna modify that statement.
I’m doing the job of a 16-year-old. My knees, however, are not.