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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