today

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I had a standing desk for fucking years. 

Working at stainless steel counters in kitchens.
 
Listening to vigilantes talk about the dangers of sitting.
 
I think of my knees.
 
A lot of you have tattoos that tell your cooking stories. 
 
These two scars are mine.

A cook's old knees.
 
***
 
I was 46 the first time I saw an orthopedic surgeon.
 
He put my x-rays up on the lightbox behind his desk.
 
The back of his leather office chair facing me.
 
Shaking his head.
 
Told me they both needed replacing. 
 
But I was too young. 
 
***
 
I waited seven years before I had my first knee done.
 
Expensive gel injection…Traumeel lotion…Epsom salt…electroacupuncture…cortisone shots.
 
Needles in the knee. 
 
Let’s talk about the pain of ink.
 
***
 
I’m not going to bore you with the details.

​But I’m always up for knee talk. 

***

From 2009 to 2021, I lived with pain.

Twelve years. The last two were the worst.

Going up and down stairs was murder.

***

Being free of it has been a big relief. My spirit's lifted.

The only drawback.

The metal in my knees triggers the security sensors.

I have to go through a double check at the airport.

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1983