I don't have rheumatoid arthritis.
It's surreal to have had to find out for sure. But when trying to get my ass off the floor sends what feels like a gunshot into the side of my knee, one should inquire why. (Unless you're a guy. Then you don't look into any health-related matter until you're bleeding out your mouth. It's dude code.)
I've been mildly freaking out about this for a month, because that's how long it takes to get an appointment with a rheumatoid arthritis specialist. Apparently, the whole damn country is achy. I'm still in my 30s. Arthritis is for liver-spotted people who do commercials for scooters and term life insurance. Not someone still working off her baby weight. But it's the baby that brought it on. And I thought he was so sweet.
Painful joints after pregnancy often means arthritis. Who knew? I just assumed my knees were that bad from eight years of cheerleading and a little move called the "knee drop," which involved jumping into the air and then bending the knees, tucking feet toward the buttocks and landing square onto the basketball court. Great idea, eh? I've been creaking around since my senior year of high school.
Luckily, my Donna Reed-esque doctor felt nothing too out of the ordinary and my X-rays came back rather clean. I may have screwed up knees, but they are arthritis free!
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1 comments:
BTW - meant to tell you today that I'm so glad you don't have arthritis! You don't look a day over 70!
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