The first time I hurt my knee was in high school. In the marching band. Which is not a sport. It’d be cool to be on crutches if you were the quarterback of the football team, but not if you’re the worst girl that was demoted from flute to I’m not even telling you what it’s that bad. There were many “she can’t even walk right” comments in my family.
I sucked at every sport I ever tried, so I gave them up as fast as I could. Then, in college I blew my knee out twice more – once on a sticky bar floor and once at an uneven outdoor concert venue. I shouldn’t even HAVE pride left. At the bar, the owner was a friend of mine, and was nice enough to give me a shot of tequila after I successfully popped my kneecap back into the socket it is supposed to stay in. At the concert, I was having trouble doing it myself but no man I was with would hit it in for me as I kept instructing. All three times I’ve gone to the doctor they’ve put me in a giant immobilizer, that goes from your ankle to your hip. Again, glamorous only after saving babies from burning buildings, not in college hopping around campus after a night at a bar.
So of course I took up skiing. And the point of this story is that although my knee hurt from time to time, it barely would pop, not the full on dislocation I’ve come to expect. And I made it through ski season – the toughest sport I’ve ever attempted, still walking on both legs.
Until last week, when no, not skiing, but standing up from sitting down and turning to reach and get something…did I pop my knee out of joint. My knee is a dork.