I have an unlucky knee. I may not be left-handed–though I can use both hands for some things, which can be creepy (and another topic)–but I am left-kneed. Over the course of my lifetime I have had more left knee scrapes, bumps and bruises than I can count. One time I got an infection in my left foot, probably because it was jealous of my knee. This week I got scrape number one jillion and one.
It’s right over an old scrape, too, which I got two years ago. That one took some time to heal, but now it’s probably ready to throw in the towel and stay injured. Our skin is supposedly our largest organ, and we mess with it all the time. We stick jewelry in it, shoot colored ink into it, slather goop on it, dry it out, get it wet, overuse it, cover it up one season and hide it the next. It’s little wonder we get so tired in our old age: it isn’t the inside that goes on strike, but the outside.
Of course we get afflictions like psoriasis, acne, and such. We get skin cancer. We get sunburn and windburn. Yet our skin is our armor, the enrobement that makes us what we are. We should be more careful with it.
Aging, of course, does not help matters, particularly in the knee region. At what point in our growth does genetics say that we should lose the padding that helps as as kids to kneel on the sidewalk to check out a bug or play a game? Suddenly it hurts to take a knee, whether we’re in church or on a football field protesting during our national anthem. That’s one thing I find interesting: that those burly football players are probably sore when they do that. You would think that would encourage them to stand and do some other protest action. After the song is over.
So off I went to the pharmacy to buy ultra large bandages to put on my gross, leaky, bruised knee. No matter how many boxes of those medicine chest staples you buy, you never have the size you need for the job. Unless you make like a roofer and try to piece together twenty junior sized ones into a big patchwork one.
Back in my days as a dancer, I had knee pads for cushioning during jazz routines. i wish I had them now. Of course, they don’t go with work attire, but maybe I can go another year or two without another disaster. I’m sure my knees are begging on their. . .whatever. . .begging me to play it safe. Ain’t happening. I have some years left on both knees, so next time I’ll try to lean toward the right one and alter the course of history. That would be the bee’s knees.
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