Legless Swim, F*cking Knee.

There are some songs I just can’t listen to. Glycerine by Bush is one of those.

Irrelevant, sure, but it’s true none-the-less. (Word is demanding an improper grammatical correction. I win this time, Word: “it’s” is the correct usage. But you make me question myself so. DAMN YOU!)

And damn my knee. Fucking knee. But I’ll get to that.

First, let me get this right out there: last night was a good night of sleep. Liam slept. Angie slept. Stan slept. We slept the night through, minus a pee break or two, and…dang it, Shel Silverstein. You just keep creeping in to my writing.

I woke up because my body decided it was time to wake up. It was a bit before 7 and everyone else was asleepin’, so I strolled out through the garden. I reflected on a good night’s sleep. I wonder if the valium kept me from dreaming, or if I just forgot them, and if I always dream but usually forget them, or if I usually don’t dream but then sometimes do. It was a dreamless, sleep-filled night so far as I can tell, and that I like.

The morning routine was normal, except I was rested and in a great mood because of it and I headed for the office with nothing in my stomach. I ate my oatmeal and my mocha and got down to bidness. I had a meeting take longer than planned, but it was productive. I dealt with frustrations better, not even getting frustrated: it was the sleep. I listened to one woman blabber on and on and on and feared it may never end, but it did, and I looked at the guy across the table from me and he whispered, “I always fear getting trapped by [her].” I call her “her” because, you know, it’d be mean to say the name, ‘cause it’s a pretty unusual name, and none of you know her and she’s not reading this, but still….

I sat on my exercise ball. I ate those unsalted almonds all through the morning. I laughed at the serving size once again. Who can eat just one serving of anything, if that's what a serving size is? (A small bottle of Naked Juice is two servings.)

I had discussions with my boss. We laughed at some perceptions of me. We laughed at the concept of me being “too stressed.” I vented some things, and that felt good and he understood, and we laughed some more, and I asked him about HIS knees. He has had a surgery. He has some years on me and he’s an admirable athlete, training for his first half iron man now. “Are you over 30?” Yes. “When I was younger and my knee blew up and I got real worried about it, I went to the doctor and he told me ‘You’re getting older and you run, it’s going to happen.’” I’m no less worried about my knee. But I’ll get to that.

Fucking knee.

I ate a banana after battling myself over whether or not I should eat it because the peel had been cut, but I ate it, then I ate an apple. I left the office and picked up Liam and still had some work phone calls (which of course I would NEVER have while driving, especially in California) and Liam had been asleep for 8 minutes when I got there and he transferred easily to the car then the house then his crib. I made another turkey sammich, double fiber bread, mustard, red-leaf lettuce, and really mixed things up with some yellow cheddar. I ate my pretzels. I worked.

Liam woke up. We played. I worked. He crawled in and out of my lap. I worked. We played.

My wife got home with our order of politically inspired t-shirts, which will likely sit in our house and maybe end up in our closets or at Goodwill, but I promoted them shamelessly on facebook anyway because…well…that’s the point. But this is beside the point.

I worked more because I have a lot to get done, and she took Liam out for a run in the stroller. I worked. Now I’ll get to that knee.

Fucking knee.

I’m not one to be inactive, and I hate it, but I truthfully fear knee problems. Knees and backs, but I feel like I’ve worked out my back issues for a while (stretch those hamstrings, as silly as it sounds), but knees: knees are scary. Not a lot can get me to take multiple days off exercising, and I pretty much took yesterday off, and the day before, and today was my swim day and I wanted to swim but I don’t want to screw up my knee.

I went to the pool. That may sound dumb, but I spent 40 minutes or so swimming. I lost track of time and laps, but it was around 40 minutes. That may also sound dumb, but I used a pull buoy the whole time, which keeps a person from having to kick, so I was just using my upper body and swimming. Swimming with no legs. It’s not the same workout. Legs burn Calories. Legs are big, powerful muscles. Leaving the legs out lessens the cardio workout, but I took more strokes and fewer breaths and got a reasonable workout. I thought of someone I once saw at that very pool: swimming. He’s a big motivator for me to this day, although he has no idea, and someday I’ll get to that, too, probably. But I swam, and I didn’t kick, so I didn’t use my knee(s). I soaked I the hot tub. Sat in the steam room. The sauna. Those things are anti-ice.

<Red Blend gone. Barbera on.>

I got home and had my wife take a picture of my knees. A picture of my knees: it’d look weird even if one wasn’t a bit swollen, but it looks especially weird as it is. This is what my knees look like:

The one on the right (my left) is the problem knee: the fucking knee. I messaged my doctor. I’ll probably have to go see him, and they’ll want to take an x-ray which will waste everyone’s time and my money, and then they may want an MRI, or they may tell me to R.I.C.E. Tonight, as you know now, the “C” went from red blend to barbera. The ice is on. The leg is elevated. And I’ll admit at the moment there’s a bit more pain, but it feels like my quadriceps, and that’s maybe part of what’s odd about it, except that it’s not odd because pain is odd and it can manifest in strange places when those aren’t the actual places that are hurt. Or it can radiate. Or maybe I’m just all messed up. There are many possibilities. I want to stretch but I’m scared.

<Drink.>

I’m gonna have to go to the doctor. Fucking knee.

We had more of the lasagna with zucchini tonight because my wife had frozen some (uncooked) from last week and she cooked it while I was at the pool and I came home to mostly ready dinner and then it was ready. There were salads, too, with spinach and carrots and red onions and yellow cheddar and croutons and I often put too much dressing on, or at least others might think it’s too much. I had two slices of some bread she’d bought that was toasted and buttered and likely had garlic on it, and there was definitely cheese on it. Cheese is good, but I don’t like cheese on its own; cheese for cheese’s sake. I like it on something.

I’m yawning. It’s 10:17. My wine is in front of me. Our shirts are for sale. My knee is fucked up, though I still think it’s probably not too bad, and I’m trying to be optimistic and thankful for that.

The night routine with Liam went routinely. I wish he liked getting his teeth brushed more. I also wish he’d fold the clothes on the couch, but these things may be a while off, I suppose. Hell, I don’t like brushing MY teeth. Thank goodness I don't drink soda anymore—it’s bad for your teeth. And your health in general, but there are probably those that would debate that. Like Pepsi. And Coca-Cola.

So good night, Pepsi and Coca-Cola. I don’t know where you are, although I could surely find you nearby, but I have no desire. You have nothing for me. And I’m not fooled by your no-Calorie options—you’re all bad. Just like my fucking knee.