I’m on a personal journey to level my hips after a botched hip replacement and a less than stellar revision of the hip replacement. During a pandemic. When everyone is a little or a lot on edge.
I’m tired. Every week I go to this lovely man who shakes his head at my profanity. He is undeterred that my hips will somehow become even and fluid again.
Fat chance, but hey, let’s give it a try! I have nothing else to do with my time.
On a sobering Tuesday morning, after Monday’s leveling experience, I was having a little problem with balance. Christian music, piped through hidden speakers, provided a confusing metronome for my steps. Down the corridors of my office building, I careened off one wall, swayed a little down the middle, and bounced off the other wall.
A woman followed behind me. Probably trying to get to her office, but my erratic bobbing and weaving would have made passing me a challenge.
We both stopped when I turned a corner and walked into a wall. I saw birdie, star, birdie, star, birdie swirling around my head, a Looney Tunes cartoon moment. She had a ticker-tape machine clacking across her forehead that clearly read, “Drunken slut!” An eyebrow lifted. Her lips tightened into a prim line.
She asked me, “Are you okay?”
The birdies and stars continued to whirl. “Nope.” I attempted to lean against a wall. Missed the wall and tried again. Success!
“Should you be driving?”
“No. Will you drive me home?” I held the side of my head, hoping the birdies would nest and the stars would rejoin their constellations.
The woman’s head swiveled. She looked up and down the corridor as if I had asked her to braid her hair with flowers and dance naked through the parking lot. Bad idea in the Texas sun. The woman scurried away, weasel-like, without answering.
I continued my journey down the hall, accompanied by a tweeting aviary and a daffy constellation. I guess those judged to be drunken sluts don’t deserve kindness or consideration.
(Photo by pexels.com)