Urban Legends

I was much better prepared for day two with hunky Kevin. I was motivated enough to take a bath and put on some clean clothes. (Since I needed a crane - aka Paco -, some 2-in-1 oil and a spatula to get in and out if the tub, it took some serious motivation.) I even ran a brush through my hair and put on some make-up. I'm pretty sure that it looked like my 4 year old painted my face, but at least I felt (and smelled) a bit better.

By my third appointment I was on a roll. I was sporting both prom-hair and jewelry. By my fourth appointment I was calling him "Kev." I figured since he spent so much time fondling my leg that I could at least give him a pet name.

On my 5th appointment, Kev decided to unwrap my bandages and see how my scar was healing. After he finished unraveling the bandages, it was quite obvious that I hadn't shaved my knee since the surgery. There was a mohawk of white blonde hair sticking up around my scar. Kev gently brushed my scar and then looked up at me with his sparkly eyes and his dreamy smile and said "Well look at that! I thought blonde hair was a myth!"

I wasn't quite sure how to react because I knew that at that point he was envisioning whether or not the um, carpet matched the drapes. (If you know what I'm saying.) And the thought of him thinking of me that way made me turn 47 shades of red. I almost blurted out that due to a waxing incident I was actually sporting shiny hardwoods, but even with a healthy dose of percocet I managed to hold my tongue. Phew.

Needless to say, I am the star PT patient. I have made such incredible progress that my surgeon can't believe it. My Dr. informed me that I have made the best recovery of any patient he has EVER had. The fact that I am an overweight, twenty nine year old (cough*cough) mother of 3 totally blows his mind. I should've fessed up that I was working super hard to impress my hunky intern Kev, but instead I just basked in his glorious praise. (And, um, my husband was at my appointment with me.)

Sadly, Kev is on break now, so he hasn't been at my appointments. Needless to say, I am back to wearing shabby sweats and bed head. I'm saving myself . . .

And Now The Hard Part Begins

"And now the hard part begins . . . "

Those were the wise parting words of the surgeon that performed my knee surgery. I now am the proud recipient of a new ACL, a new MCL, and a refurbished meniscus. It was quite the surgery, and there was more damage than originally thought. And, since I had a blood clot when I originally hurt my knee, I had the please of giving myself daily shots for the first three weeks following my surgery. My stomach looks like Oscar De La Hoya has been using it for a punching bag.

However, with the help of my friends, family, and lots of Percocet, am I doing very well. I am making remarkable progress. I have been busting butt with insane amounts of physical therapy and the motivation to walk normally. I had a Dr's appointment yesterday and my brilliant surgeon informed me that I am making better progress than anyone he has ever seen. (He even made reference to a Cornell Wrestler that had the same surgery, saying I am "putting him to shame.")

Naturally I came home excited to share the fabulous news with my dear hubby Paco. By no means have I ever been referred to as a model patient, so I was very eager to brag. After giving my dear hubby the Cliff Notes version of my appointment, I received the following response: "Well, if I sat around all day and did therapy than I would be ahead if the game too. What did he say about mopping?"

Bitter much?

"Well, he told me to avoid any housework for at least six months." (Take THAT you grumpy turd. My Dr. has got my back!)

I realize that I haven't been much of a household asset the last few weeks, but a little sympathy would be nice. Seriously, I just had MAJOR surgery. Most people in my position aren't even walking. My instructions were to rest, rest, and REST!

Thus, that is why I have not written in ages. I have been quite pathetic really. Too pathetic to even type. I have spent the last month on the couch watching really bad television and ready anything I can get my hands on. I am now an expert on The Atlanta Housewives (they drive me insane, but I always love a good train wreck.), Rachel Zoe (I die. I die.), Entourage, One Tree Hill, Californication (I would be Hank if I were a guy.), True Blood (weird, but addictive), The Vampire Diaries (hello, sexy vampires. Stefan, I swoon for you.), and GLEE, which is quite possibly the best-show-ever.

I plan on making it all up to you in the near future with many fabulous stories. I am finally motivated to move a bit, and I am feeling of the human variety again. Sadly, I have to wear a brace that extends from my ankle to my woo-woo, so my dreams of being an exotic dancer won't be happening any time soon. But, stay tuned, with me, you never know . . .

Esther Williams

I have started aquatic physical therapy for my knee. And you know what?? It's FABULOUS. Seriously, I LOOOOOOVEEE it. Never in a million years did you expect to hear that, right?

I was very skeptical at first. I am doing my therapy at a new state-of-the-art fitness and medical complex. It is full of happy-little-skinny people. That there is enough to make me run in the other direction. But, the thought of them all enjoying the sight of gimp girl in her miraclesuit was even more daunting.

I am still relying on my crutches, and I am unable to walk up or down steps. So, my therapist Jeff informed me that they have a special chair that can lift me in and out of the pool. Naturally, I named it the Whale Lift and I envisioned the worst. I could see an industrial sized whale net that swung in and out of the water. I could just actually hear the super-sonic loud beeps that I'm sure the lift will make. I could picture the glass walls of the pool area facing out into the fitness area and I could see the entire Fitness Center running to the pool area to watch the whale be released back into the wild.

As I entered my first day, I was able to see that thankfully the pool is seperate from the rest of the fitness center. I am safe from the prying eyes of all the skinny joggers. I also saw that the whale lift was a chair attached to a pole that raised and lowered in and out of the water. Not nearly the contraption I had pictured in my mind. I also had the pleasure of watching the last 10 minutes of the Aquacize class.

This is where it gets interesting. The class had about 40 people in it. And every single one of them had white hair. I think the youngest person was 403. These are folks that grew up with pet dinosaurs. And they were all hopping, bopping, and stretching their little hearts out. And every . . .single . . . one . . . WALKED out of the pool. (with fabulous water shoes to boot!) Not one had to use the whale lift. (And there were a few whale-sized aquasizers in the group.)

So, when it came time to um, go in the water, naturally I decided that come hell or high-water I would not be needing the assistance of the whale lift. 20 minutes later, I finally made it in the pool. (baby steps...baby steps)

Naturally, I wore my miracle suit. And naturally, I was feeling fab-u-lous. That was until I got a wolf-whistle and a "hey hot stuff" from the life guard. I should have been flattered, however the life guard is a guy that had a crush on me in high school, so therefore, I was completely mortified. I have doubled in size since high school. And there aint no suit on this earth miraculous enough to conceal that. We chatted for a bit and I learned that he would be covering all my therapy sessions. Lucky me. I am just praying that I don't drown. We all know how my luck has been lately.

After a few minutes in the water, I was feeling great. I could walk!! And, my boobs looked wonderful!!! How do I know? Because the four geriatric men in my therapy group couldn't stop staring! Even my therapist Jeff had to tell them to stop swarming me. So now I have four new pool boyfriends. I have affectionately named them Fred, Ed, Ted, and Jed. (FYI - Jed is the one with the white Grizzly Adams beard and the carpet of back hair.)

I am the Esther Williams of my pool group. Not only am I the youngest by about about 30 years, I am also the skinniest of all the ladies in my group. It was such a needed ego boost! I kicked, pedaled, circled, and waved in Gold-Medal-Olmpic-Synchronized-Swimming-form. You all would have been proud.

After my hour-long session, I took another 40 minutes to make it up the pool stairs. But, dang it, I did it. (I may have been crying and holding Jeff's hand at the end, but by golly, I did it.)

The trip back to the locker room is where it gets REALLY intersting. There were naked women EVERYWHERE. Hoards of naked women. EV-ER-Y-WHERE. At the sink, in the shower, coming out of the sauna, at the lockers, in the toilets, doing their hair, well, I think you get the picture.

The catch is, they were rather floppy, droopy, and large women. (Um, and a word of advice: if you are going to strut around nude in a semi-public place, please, please, please make sure your muff isn't large enough to conceal a faction of enemy terrorists. razors are only like a dollar now. the fro look went out in the 70's.) I could understand the need to strut around nude if you looked like Gisele Bundchen, however, these women were more along the lines of Mrs. Roper on Three's company. Yeah, you get the picture.

And they are just hanging out chatting and doing their hair. One nudie asked me how I hurt my leg. I'm straight and all but I still couldn't help but stare at her boobies. I was amazed at how long they were for being so small. They were almost tubular. She's all "oh, you poor thing. I hope things get better." And I'm all "hey tubie-boobies, you really should try a bathrobe." Oy.

I even had the pleasure of being mooned by a prominent local real estate agent. I'm sitting on the bench getting my shoes on, and as she bent over to pull up her panties, her rose-tatooed ars was a mere inches from my face. Nice, eh? I will never look at her picture in the wednesday paper the same . . .

Naturally I changed in the bathroom stall. I'm still a bit too modest to share my girly-parts with a quarter of the Ithaca population. (This is the exact reason I chose not to take any pain medication before class.)

Next session, I think I may just skip the locker room altogether . . .