Forgotten Sleep

That’s what my P.E. teachers called me at the end of my freshman year in high school. This was, of course, after they had sidelined me during the third nine weeks for continually hurting myself.

That’s right. You read that correctly. The teachers made me sit out for the final nine weeks of school because they were tired of me hurting myself. They virtually gave me an A to prevent any need for emergency first aid procedures.

During the year, I jammed my pinkie. I took a basketball to the nose and popped it. I fractured my right foot during tip-off in basketball. I was pathetic. Pitiful. Completely uncoordinated. One of the teachers said that I had all the spunk needed to be a cheerleader, but I’d probably kill myself if I tried it. She was, definitely, right.

So, I really shouldn’t be surprised that this uncoordinated nature is plaguing me in adulthood. I can run in a straight line without falling over. I can lift weights without any problems. But, put me in motion around stationary objects, and all hell breaks loose.

Within the last month, I have captured part of my thumb in a corkscrew. I have smacked my knee on a steel table leg in a restaurant booth. I have pulled the pantry door into my toes. Truly, I’m not meant to be outside of solitary confinement.

All of this is annoying, but it’s all coming back to bite me. Twenty years ago, my parents bought me the most bone-headed toy ever manufactured — the Pogoball. Do you remember this abomination against mankind? The pogo stick without the stick? My 10-year-old self thought this was the greatest toy ever until it betrayed me. One foul jump, and I landed on the concrete patio outside my childhood home on my knees. The impact was astounding.

For years afterward, I would be walking down the street, and my knees would give way. It was so sad to watch. Even worse to experience. Eventually, my knees recovered, my body rebounded and acted as though I’d never sustained an injury. Now, though, my knees are starting to reveal the deep, dark secret of their painful past.

When I walk up the stairs now, my knees scrape and pop. I sound as though I’m 80. When I walk down the hallway at work, the ache in my kneecap is almost debilitating. I loathe the idea of having surgery to fix what is clearly a problem, but I’m afraid that that is my undeniable future.

Surgery or no, knee brace or no, hear me now — I will not be giving up my shoes!