A while ago, before I folded and made a doctor’s appointment for my sad, too-young-to-be-this-ouchy knees and was simply hobbling about making do, I advised a young co-worker, using up absolutely all of the old-people-speak at my disposal:
“You don’t think it’s important now, but whatever you do, always take care of your knees.”
“Always take care of my needs?”
“No, KNEES. This is not that kind of advice. Knees. Like feet, but higher up.”
Thank God we resolved that. I thought social services might come.
So I finally visited my doctor, who is a very nice person, and she looked at my knees and said, “Do you know your knees are swollen?” And I said, “I thought maybe they were just fat.” She laughed and had the lab take most of my blood.
It’s been a week, and I still don’t know what it is my blood has told them (or not).
They took my blood and now they’re not calling. It’s like I’ve been on a bad date with a vampire.