I don't have kids, (I have enough trouble owning a cat), but I imagine that if I was a mother I would feel the need to meticulously record every milestone in my child's life: baby's first facial expression that was not gas-related; baby's first gurgle that bears a passing resemblance to human speech; baby's first time not waking up at 3 a.m. allowing mommy to get just enough sleep to prevent her from having a fatigue-induced meltdown in the produce aisle of the grocery store because they are out of organic bananas. (I can tell that I am going to be an excellent mother). Anyhow, I have a similar reaction to record every milestone with my new hip. Even the most mundane expedition becomes exciting when you are doing it for the first time post-hip-replacement. First time walking on wet linoleum! First time getting out of a boat on to a dock without assistance! First time craving something sweet since narcotics and surgery screwed up my sense of taste! It's too bad my freaky cyborg hip is not as cute as a human baby because I would have filled about 18 photo albums with pictures by now of all its many firsts.
Happily, my mini vacation to Point Roberts provided more such firsts. First time being accosted by two large dogs while going up slippery steps! First time walking along the sand and seeing what strange footprints I leave behind because I am still putting too much weight on the balls of my feet! First time sitting in low wicker chairs, on low, hard chairs, on chairs around a campfire, on pretty much every manner of chair that does not comply to my hip restrictions! First time straddling a muddy ditch to pick blackberries and using my cane to bring down the high branches! It was all very exciting.
Unhappily, my hip is not a fan of trying new things. It is a fan of me sitting on my ass in bed, eating frozen grapes and blogging about my growing unhappiness with reality TV. It therefore wasn't exactly in a party frame of mind and decided to get a little sulky. I wasn't, however, about to let my freaky cyborg hip win. Sometimes you have to say to your hip, "Ok, look. I understand that the Old Crow bourbon I am drinking tastes like paint thinner. I also understand that it makes me stumble even more than normal because my alcohol tolerance is roughly equivalent to that of a 13-year-old's since I have laid off the sauce for so long. And, yes, this chair is ridiculously low and too hard for my bony anti-ass. Still, you need to put on your big girl pants and suck it up. We are celebrating S. and A's upcoming marriage and if you think I am going to stop sitting around this campfire trying to make s'mores without a marshmallow roasting stick, then you are sorely mistaken."
This, alas, made my hip throw a full-blown tantrum. I quickly realized that I was not going to add "getting through an entire weekend without my hip pulling a diva move and spoiling the party" to my list of firsts. I ended up going home on the second night, missing out of an evening of general debauchery and a morning of bacon-and-eggs hangover breakfast. Oh well. I have two weddings to attend in the next two weeks, so I'm sure there will be ample opportunity for hijinx and mayhem. My freaky cyborg hip better take a shot of bourbon because it's going to be a wild ride.