I think I might be broken.
I woke up this morning with a bonus left Knee of Death joining the usual right KoD. They have been competing all day to see who can impede my movement more effectively. Left knee is currently winning with its signature vice-like kneecap death grip. It has been toying with me, seizing up when a 92 tram, rare as a unicorn made from waffles, comes into view. Right knee continues its sterling work preventing deep, or even shallow, knee bends. Both of them are working a sort of puffy fluid-filled loveliness, that is entirely charming, especially in a dress.
I have extra twinges in my hip flexors, stomach and forearms, a result of a week picking 20kg of Fingers up repeatedly, because he is delightful and soft and has short, very lazy legs. The knees are a result of trying to beat the hippies to the largest chocolate eggs, I think. Damn hippies. Some of them run really fast, even in their horrid foot shaped hand tooled, cruelty free shoes.
I am broken aren't I? It's my age. I don't bounce back anymore. I don't even walk slowly back. I am stuck in broken corner, clutching my aching bits and hobbling.
The CFO is similarly afflicted. Doing battle with unending evil that is hair washing last night, he turned away from the bath clutching his back with a rictus of old person pain contorting his features.
"What is it?"
"J'ai mal là et là et là"
"Ugh, me too"
We poke the children, all lithe-limbed and bouncy, in the general direction of bed, then slump uselessly on the sofa like a pile of old washing and watch Bones (Alexa, this is your fault. I keep surprising myself finding David Boringenaz mildly attractive and I blame you entirely.). Some of the corpses look more lively than we do. Even the ones in small pieces.
I should have been more careful. I should have gone to see the Dr Kevorkian of Knees for the injections that are so terrible you need an injection to endure them (TRUE). I should have taken the giant horse pills he prescribed me (a whole walrus skeleton in each one! Or something). I should have done more weight bearing exercise, eaten more dairy, kept up with stupid ass Power Plate. I should have spent my youth swimming and running and playing games with fast, terrifying balls with a magnetic attraction to my head instead of sitting hunched in a twisty knot on the sofa with a book and a paper bag of Yorkshire Mixture, the pointiest boiled sweets ever. When the time for hockey practice came, I was sitting eating Nutella on toast, watching Neighbours and sneering at anyone in a gym skirt and knee socks. Now it's payback time.
I put all my faith in Dr Kevorkian being as scalpel happy as his British colleagues, and replacing my knees with convenient silicone and steel castors, so I could roll around on them; like that man covered in roller blade wheels in the Paris métro. Pah. He is a RUBBISH orthopedic surgeon. Shouldn't he be sawing me apart in a macho fashion with blood and cartilege flying everywhere? Listening to hard rock? He should. I love general anasthetic too, it is so soothing and delicious, like floating on a an airborne pony made of marshmallows.
I hate getting older and faulty and the gradual tiny betrayals of my body.
It started with childbirth (MOTHERHOOD SPOILER ALERT: go and look at some baby animals now, anyone who doesn't have, but is planning to have children). I remember with total, horrible precision, hobbling painfully along to the loo, that first night after Lashes was born, pushing my new 9lb hairy alien along with me in its plastic fishtank to rest my weight on. I had never felt so weak and misshapen and BROKEN (umbilical hernia, separated abdominals, puffy, sweating, leaky, never wishing to poo again). I had to sit, gingerly, on the loo for twenty minutes to get the strength to go the hundred yards back to my bed. Nothing just snapped back as I had been promised, and as I had blithely assumed as a young, complacent primagravida.
Then I went and did it all over again, in a fourth floor flat with no lift, carrying the not yet toddler up the stairs balanced on the bump and dragging the pushchair behind me. Then carrying the baby on the front and the still not quite yet toddler on my back. That didn't help much.
Then Paris made it a hundred times worse. I can trace the worst of the decline to Paris. Paris gave me lines, pinched bits and shadows and a new set of aches. The constant attrition of a tantruming two year old in full ironing board mode, a newborn and a pushchair versus the métro, the impossibly tiny lift to the sixth floor flat that the pushchair didn't fit in, the assholes who park on the kerbs, the grass in the park the toddler isn't allowed to run on, the manège he doesn't want to get off. The soul-destroying grind of living in the city of light, being prodded out of the way by elderly ladies with murder in their eyes and pointy, pointy sticks. Bastards.
And now? Now nothing works as it should. I can't just run at full on weepette speed for the tram anymore, for fear of falling over. In any case, I can barely manage a stiff trot at the best of times. I am a wreck. A hobbity disintegrating wreck with holey tights.
Any suggestions? I am thinking a trip to some clinic in Lausanne where they will replace my body with that of some lovely muscular Swiss pentathlete. Either that or I will simply get an obliging Belgian surgeon to take my brain out and place it in a kilner jar until medical science can fix me.