Buffalo Gal

The only thing more pathetic than the crumbling of a former athlete is the crumbling of a bad former athlete. I am the case in point.
My brother was born with a true athlete's grace. I was born to turn pages. But I pathetically tried.
I never scored the winning basket in a clinch, but apparently accomplished enough youthful jumping around in a basketball uniform and cheerleading skirt to experience the adult collapse of the tendons and muscles that used to work so anonymously.
First it was the ACL and meniscus blow out, a virtual rite of middle age passage in my extended family. Just last Saturday we were all sitting around a bonfire in Western New York comparing our scars and replacement ACL sources preparing cousin Stacy for her upcoming surgery.
It may be gauche to talk about your salary or portfolio, but my brother is no more shy about mentioning that HIS knee surgeon takes care of the Buffalo Sabres than I am about letting it slip that MY knee surgeon treated the US Women's Olympic Ski team. Unfortunately I left that surgeon back in Houston.
My newest insult is the daggers wedged in each of my Achilles tendons when I get up in the morning. The point between OMIGOD I CAN'T TAKE THIS I'M GOING BACK TO BED and "it's not so bad" seems to get a little longer each week.
I used to be a morning person, but now even our formerly persistent flock of felines have learned to let an hour or so go by before they start pestering me for breakfast. I move like Frankenstein, with all of his personality and charm.
I dated a lot of heels in my single life, but have no heel healers in my Rolodex. I'm past self-medication, it's time to add one.
If one half of your life is play, play, play and the other is patch, patch, patch... I fear I've limped over to the other side.

Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs

Buffalo Gal Judi Griggs I'm a communications professional, writer, cynic, mother, wife and royal pain. The order depends on the day. I returned to my hometown in November 2004 after a couple of decades of heat and hurricanes. I can polish pristine copy, but not here. This is my morning exercise -- 20-minute takes without a net or spellcheck. It's easier than sit ups for me. No guarantee what it will be for you. Clicking on the subscribe link will send you an email notice when each new entry is posted.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (0) Share on Facebook		2004-06-18 9:32 AM My achilles heel? My achilles heels The only thing more pathetic than the crumbling of a former athlete is the crumbling of a bad former athlete. I am the case in point. My brother was born with a true athlete's grace. I was born to turn pages. But I pathetically tried. I never scored the winning basket in a clinch, but apparently accomplished enough youthful jumping around in a basketball uniform and cheerleading skirt to experience the adult collapse of the tendons and muscles that used to work so anonymously. First it was the ACL and meniscus blow out, a virtual rite of middle age passage in my extended family. Just last Saturday we were all sitting around a bonfire in Western New York comparing our scars and replacement ACL sources preparing cousin Stacy for her upcoming surgery. It may be gauche to talk about your salary or portfolio, but my brother is no more shy about mentioning that HIS knee surgeon takes care of the Buffalo Sabres than I am about letting it slip that MY knee surgeon treated the US Women's Olympic Ski team. Unfortunately I left that surgeon back in Houston. My newest insult is the daggers wedged in each of my Achilles tendons when I get up in the morning. The point between OMIGOD I CAN'T TAKE THIS I'M GOING BACK TO BED and "it's not so bad" seems to get a little longer each week. I used to be a morning person, but now even our formerly persistent flock of felines have learned to let an hour or so go by before they start pestering me for breakfast. I move like Frankenstein, with all of his personality and charm. I dated a lot of heels in my single life, but have no heel healers in my Rolodex. I'm past self-medication, it's time to add one. If one half of your life is play, play, play and the other is patch, patch, patch... I fear I've limped over to the other side. Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs Read/Post Comments (0) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top