60 is NOT the new 29. Or even the new 39 or 49. That's a lie. A lie told by people who do yoga on paddle boards and eat chia pudding voluntarily.
Because here’s the deal: I’ve been having some knee pain. Nothing major at first—just a little twinge here, a minor protest there. But then last week my left knee decided to up the drama. We’re talking full-on Broadway performance: general achiness with occasional solos where it felt like someone was jabbing an ice pick made of lava directly under my kneecap. Delightful.
So, like any responsible adult pretending not to Google symptoms at 2 a.m., I went to my primary care provider. She took one look and said, “Ohhhh...yeah, let's get you to orthopedic.”
Cut to: X-rays, professional poking, and a fun game of “Tell Me Where It Hurts” that somehow managed to make me sweat, wince, and reevaluate all my life choices. The diagnosis? Osteoarthritis and chondromalacia patellae. That last one sounds like a fancy Italian appetizer but is actually code for: “Your kneecap cartilage is having a midlife crisis.”
Cue the Church Lady from SNL: “Well, isn’t that special?”
To calm things down, the doctor prescribed prednisone—because nothing says “healing” like swelling and the anticipation of a bonus five pounds. I can now look forward to pain relief and pants that no longer button. It’s a two-for-one deal!
But wait, there's more: my ortho’s note says, “Limit the use of stairs as tolerated.” Sounds reasonable… until you realize there are 52 stairs to get to my classroom. And no elevator. NONE. So unless I can start teaching by carrier pigeon or smoke signal, we’ve got a logistical nightmare on our hands. Or legs. Whatever.
Now, on to the good part: I’m rocking a brand new, hinged, incredibly sexy knee brace. It’s like the Spanx of the orthopedic world—supportive, unflattering, and somehow making me walk like a stormtrooper on casual Friday.
The orthopedic group also gave me access to an exercise app. Think Peloton for the physically compromised. It has videos, instructions, helpful tips, a timer, a rep counter—and, most importantly, it saves me a $35 copay every time I work out. That’s $35 I can now spend on pants with elastic waistbands. Or donuts. Or therapy. (Or maybe all three.)
I did Day 1 today: 25 minutes of leg lifts, awkward stretches, and whispering “I miss cartilage” under my breath. My knee and I are currently in mediation, hoping to settle this dispute without anyone else getting involved (looking at you, right knee).
Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment of This Is Not How I Thought Aging Would Go.
