You know how I have been going to the gym of late? Well partly is because I want to look HAWT for summer (cough cough), but the other part is a whole lot more embarrassing.
Let me indulge you.
Firstly, meet Dickie. Dickie is my right knee.
So I have this issue where when I crouch down, I cannot get back up.
It is like my head tells my knees to push up, but Dickie refuses and I am left to topple onto the floor, then I have to find something to pull myself up with.
Can you imagine what that is like with workmates around? Or when you are sitting on your backside on the floor at a blogging conference and your knee just point-blank refuses to comply with the get the fuck up request.
I also have issues when I sit in the very back of our car. It doesn’t happen often that I sit way down the back of the Kluger, but a few weeks ago I needed to.
You know what happens next don’t you. Yeap I got stuck. I couldn’t get myself up out of the seat to climb through to get out of the back door. So Mr MMM had to open up the boot and drag my arse out.
You see, Dickie has become a lazy little bastard from my years of sitting on the couch with the boob monster aka Lil D. I would also like to add he has become ignorant. Maybe not a smoker though like the pic above suggests but still you get the idea.
So I am attempting to whip Dickie back into shape and show him who is BOSS.
You maybe wondering why Dickie has become such a problem.
The story goes like this …
When I was about 10 I dislocated my knee cap jumping out of the shower. Holy bloody hell I had never experienced so much pain, but my crazy Mother knew what to do to get it back in. Considering she wasn’t a nurse I was shocked at how on earth she managed to put that right knee cap that was smartly facing to the left back forward facing. As the story goes I had clearly inherited my Mother’s family’s knees and my Mum had become experienced at helping her Gran pop hers back in back in the day.
Years went by and my knee would kindly swing left at least once or twice a year. A couple of times I did a spectacular job of tearing all sorts of things under the skin and ended up in a Richards Splint in the middle of summer. Yes that sucked. But not as much as being put in hospital with it and then a cyclone hitting my town. I was so scared of not being able to run. You know like run from a tornado run. Anyway, the cyclone fizzled but my memories of the whole drama never did.
What would happen if I ever had to run for my life with this Dickie Knee?
When I grew up my trusty knee continued to fail me whenever it bloody wanted and at the age 33 I decided to go down the path of surgical intervention. Now I am convinced my surgeon made up the name of this operation because he had no idea what he was going to do with my fucking knee cap that he could dislocate with his hands while I sat watching.
He called it a Marquette Hauser. I can’t even find the frigging thing on Google so that proves it is BS I reckon.
So essentially, he took bone from my right hip and screwed it down below my knee straightening and tightening my medial ligament. Can I just say too, he did this under a spinal anaesthetic because the mad Dickie knee owner had once in the past had a reaction to anaesthetic.
Awake she was listening to Bubble on an iPod but also hearing the sound of drilling and then watching the precision of the surgeons stitching up her leg in the reflection of the mirrored lights.
Yes gross I know. But I was a little drugged and everything in the whole world at that moment was fucking cool.
Dickie then was never again physically able to hang left. He always had to face forward no matter what sort of spastic he wanted to throw.
This all worked fine until recently when he discovered another way to fuck with me.
Yeap, the old silent treatment.
So that is why I am at the gym. I am whipping Dickie back into behaving like he should.
Because you never know when you are going to need get your arse up and run for your life.
Well that is what I keep telling myself as I smash out 20 mins alternating between running and power walking.