Remember when I demonstrated my special sense of coordination at the end of December? I pretty much avoided touching my bruised knees for a week or so and then I completely forgot about them after I burned my face with a flattening iron. A few weeks ago, my left knee felt hot and when I rubbed it, it felt . . . odd. It felt like my knee had a breast implant. Well, I’ve never actually touched an artificial breast, but I’m pretty sure that it would feel something like my knee felt.

I did what I usually do when I have a boo-boo. I waited for it to go away on its’ own. Unfortunately, instead of shrinking, my knee boob ached and the lump that was still visible through my jeans made the dreaded panty line seem desirable. On a less vain note, the knee boob made kneeling excruciatingly painful and this caused the twice daily Lego/Playmobile disaster cleanup to take much longer than it should have taken. Eventually, I showed Doug my knee boob and after gagging, he made a doctor appointment for me.

I prepared for the appointment by digging a dust covered skirt out of the closet in an effort to avoid the need to disrobe at the doctor’s office. I enjoyed the dry humor of my doctor and his nurse’s seemingly unwitting role as the straight man for his jokes. I tweeted nervously while they noisily prepared for their highly scientific plan to “drain it and see what’s in there.” I didn’t make a sound when the doctor numbed my knee with super unpleasant needle sticks. I made casual small talk as the doctor readied the syringe with a needle the size of a coffee stirrer. As the words “expect clear liquid” left his lips and blood filled the turkey baster, I sat calmly.

I was the poster child for good patient until the doctor’s soothing voice explaining the inner workings of my knee started to bounce about my head like a moth in a ceiling light. At the same time that I found myself unable to focus on his words, I felt the room spinning and had to instantly decide if I should ignore the symptoms of what was coming next and risk falling off the exam table or announce my weeny-hood. I chose the latter. The doctor acted like he’d lost a bet. “I would have seen it coming if you weren’t wearing lipstick.” I leaned back as the doctor and nurse grabbed my ankles and hoisted them up in the air. At that moment, my clever skirt plan failed me completely. I was walked out of the exam room by a tiny nurse and handed to a husband just like every other 70-year-old in the building.

I started my day with three boobs and ended it as a senior citizen.