Not Taking This Sitting Down

I apologize for the radio silence. I hope no one thought that I had been attacked by a gang of rogue physio oldsters agitated into a jealous rage over my progress at physio. (Don't worry. I keep a bag of lint-covered peppermints in my pocket for such an occasion). No, the reason for my absence is that even though my ass is pretty much still stuck in bed, the power of the internets means that I'm kept on my toes by work, socializing (hey, Skype counts as socializing) and various internships.

Right now, two things are keeping my bed's ass groove firmly indented:

1. The whole "brand, spanking new hip joint makes sitting and standing painful" thing, plus the fact that hip restrictions make doing cool things less cool (we all remember the sex manual, yes?).
2. I know very few people in Vancouver (or, at least, very few people who I can't guilt trip into coming to visit me), which gives me little-to-no incentive to put on clothing that did not come courtesy of my former national team's Nike sponsorship. (Hey, no one said that the 'it' in "Just Do It" couldn't refer to eating frozen grapes while watching Alton Brown teach you how to cook a perfect porterhouse steak). I mean, if you're going to spend 15 minutes wrestling your jeans on with a grabber, you should probably go somewhere better than "to the mall to look at clothing you cannot try on without the aforementioned grabber, thus filling you with the rage of small animals."

Factor #1 is still in play. Those of you who are familiar with my neverending battle against my anti-ass know that I have never liked sitting. I like it even less after someone recently chiseled out my hip's ball and socket and used power tools to install a new one. Here's how I sit:

1. Lug around an ass cushion 4 times the size of your laptop, which is great fun when you're still walking on crutches.
   
2. Lay the ass cushion on a chair, though the fact that it is bigger than the surface of the chair will almost guarantee that it will fall off at some point in time.
3. Try to lower yourself (without breaking hip precautions!) on to the chair. When the ass cushion falls off or slides out from under you, you will not be able to adjust it without breaking hip restrictions or reaching for your grabber. Since you do not want to ask someone to reach between your legs and give your ass cushion a good yank, you will settle for riding a four-inch-thick square of foam side saddle.
   
4. Perch on the terribly askew ass cushion with your bad leg stuck out and your back jammed against the backrest so that the bones of your spine are bruised, requiring you to stick one hand behind your back between your spine and your backrest, like Napoleon in reverse.
   
5. Realize that you look like some sort of broken life-sized marionette.
   
6. Or like a contestant on America's Top Geriatric Model. (The only people who sit worse than I do are models in fashion magazines. I suspect they, too, are plagued by the scourge of ass bruising).
7. Or like some sort of gout-stricken king after feasting on an entire roast pig and swilling jugs of mead.
   

You can therefore see why it takes a lot more than boredom to get me out of the house.

This week, however, I've finally received the motivation I need to leave the comfort of my room: my friend S., who recently moved to Vancouver from Australia to do a four-month internship. She was staying at my place for awhile and I'm assuming that she did not move halfway around the world to get the grand tour of my favourite daytime reality TV shows. It was time to put on my big girl pants and head out into the real world.

S. moving to Vancouver, by the way, is all part of my master plan. See, I have a great many talents: picking things up with the toes on my right foot (they are like monkey toes!); making French buttercream; injecting business correspondence with the appropriate dash of "You Attitude." The list goes on. But meeting new people? Not really a strong suite. Nine times out of 10, I will knock something over with my elaborate hand gestures and the person will assume I have a meth addiction. Solution: Bring all my old friends to Vancouver! (Are you listening, people of Champaign-Urbana?)

Granted, S. and I did spend a significant amount of time watching Dexter re-runs online. But I also went on my first real post-surgical excursion....to the Richmond Night Market. Why I thought that I should take my first non-physio-or-doctor-related trip at a place jammed with thousands of jostling and shoving people, many of whom are carrying squid on pointy sticks, I don't know. I do know, however, that I was able to maneuver past the stalls that specialize in handmade false eyelashes, past the accupuncturist who boasted of his ability to cure "Human Pain," past the snake exhibit and the rows of LED-lighted T-shirts that light up in time to music, past the stand after stand carrying delicious dim-sum goodness and potato chips on sticks. I tasted victory and it tasted like chocolate-pudding bubble tea!

The next day, I even went to my friend T's house with S. (and my ass cushion) to eat a delicious dinner and fawn over her cats. For ages I've had a standing appointment with my bed and suddenly I've sprung back into action. Make way, real world. I'm slowly creeping my way back towards you.

Got My Mojo Workin' But it Just Don't Work on Shoes

In the year since my hip replacement, I have not exactly been bringing sexy back. In fact, between the lack of hip flexion, the post-surgical rashes (which happily have resolved themselves), the swamp-creature gait pattern, the incisions, and the semi-detached ass, sexy and I aren't even Facebook friends. For a long time, most fashionable clothing pressed painfully against my hip or my detached gluteus medius, so I've gotten into a rut of jeans, sweatshirts and a five-year-old cami with a built-in bra that has holes in it, but I won't throw it away because American Eagle doesn't make them any more and long camis with built-in bras are rarer than hen's teeth.

In my defense, when it takes you about 8.5 hours to bend down to pick something up, you don't want to throw the "trying not to expose yourself on account of your short skirt" factor into the equation. (No good can come of it. No good at all). And when you're spending months at a time lying on your back (and not even in a sexy way!), your main fashion concern tends to be "do I have instant noodles stuck to my chest?" A few days ago, however, I said to myself, "Arley, do you ever wonder why the only cat calls you get are people mistaking you for a gay man and shouting homophobic slurs at you? Do you think that's a sign that maybe you should break out the party dress? Or at least put on some lip gloss?"

Point. Taken. After all, I am decidedly less gimpy than I was before and in about a month, I am going to have surgery all over again and will once again be getting dressed using a specially designed grabber with a hook on it. It was time to get my mojo working before my mojo got surgically removed. When Erin McQ and I went shopping and I found an expensive Calvin Klein sweater dress on sale for less than $20, it was like the heavens had parted and a sign had been handed down to me. That sign read: Arley, thou shalt wear thine sexy-ass sweater dress to thy sports banquet thou art attending for work in Ottawa in a few days hence.

Now, don't get me wrong. My goal with the sweater dress was not to score/hook up/get a little somethin'-somethin'. I have very little interest in dating at the moment because a) I'm moving halfway across the country in a matter of weeks and b) you know what's not great to do in the first few weeks of a relationship? Have major surgery that requires you to use a walker for extended periods of time. Plus, I'm pretty sure that "work function" + "skanking it up" is a recipe for "unemployment." But sometimes you need to give your self-confidence a boost by putting on a tight (but professionally acceptable!) dress, looking in the mirror and saying, "You know what? I am wearing the f*ck out of this dress. I am wearing this dress so hard that when people look at me and say 'daaamn,' they will not mean it in the sense of 'daaamn, what happened to you?"

Well, that was the plan anyways. Here was the reality. I spent all evening issuing press releases, so that I had only 10 minutes to get ready for the banquet. I was sweaty, my hair looked like I had been involved in a vigorous headbanging session, and I'd forgotten a makeup brush so I'd applied eyeshadow with my fingertip and I'm pretty sure that I got at least some of it near my eyes. I threw on the dress and a pair of red shoes I'd brought and strutted out of there with the best strut I could muster.

Still, for a moment, I felt as if the plan had succeeded. I catwalked (somewhere, Miss J from Project Runway is giving me side-eye) down to the banquet all with my shoulders back and my head held high. I did not even get to the banquet hall, however, when I saw the folly of my plans. I had not worn my sexy red shoes since the surgery. The last time I wore the shoes, I did not walk like a stroke-addled zombie. Now, my sexy red shoes were a little redder, because they had worn all the skin off the back of my heels, which had started bleeding.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how I spent the entire banquet in bare feet limping even more than usual with my shoes in my purse. And that is also why I have been wearing a pair of my mom's old flip-flops even though it's raining, because there is a huge chunk missing out of my right heel and putting on real shoes makes them bleed. And that is maybe why I felt the need to pull an all-nighter before I left at 5 a.m. for my flight home, which resulted in me showing up on A's doorstep to pick up Mika back firmly in my jeans and sweatshirt, with make-up raccoon-like under my eyes, limping and complaining of sleep deprivation. The only good side was that A. took one look at me and identified that I had a serious need for french toast, so we went to Le Peep and then I had a 3-hour nap. Le Peep french toast cures everything.

Snakes on a Cane!

The hunt for a new cane continues and you know what? For once the ads on the side of my blog did something more than make me think, "Wow, clicking on link that could probably give my computer a rash." Today, one of the ads on "Young and Hip" was for "Kentucky Walking Sticks." I clicked it and what to my wondering eyes did appear but....a hand-carved walking stick....with a glow-in-the-dark snake carved around it. (!!!). I don't even need a sword in my cane if I have a glow-in-the-dark snake hanging out there being like, "Dude. You think I'm scary now. Wait until the lights go out. I'll go radioactive on your ass."

Imagine the fun at movie theaters. They're going to have to change the announcement to, "For the courtesy of others, please turn off your cell phones and refrain from wiggling your glow-in-the-dark snake cane at young children as if to make it dance." It's like a nightlight and a weapon and a mobility aid rolled into one. You cannot go wrong with a snake cane. Well, of course, unless you're planning on going on a date. I have a hard time picturing some guy saying, "Hey, check out the glow-in-the-dark snake on that one! She's like a sexy Jaffar from Aladin! I'd sure like to give her a magic carpet ride."

Ok, so the symbolism is wrong, but it's a good thought. CaneWatch2010 continues!

Sorry, TSA. I Think I Need a Sword in a Cane

I've been trying for awhile to find a better cane. Granted, my cane is no longer a suspect in my attempted murder, but that doesn't mean that it's meeting my mobility needs. Ok, actually it's doing an OK job with my walking-related mobility needs, but when it comes to social mobility, let's just say that I might as well leave my house wearing a sweatshirt with the face of a kitten with a Bedazzled collar on it. (Though, according to the website, the cane does come in a variety of patterns including 'camouflage' and 'floral' so maybe I just need to upgrade. That camouflage cane will come in handy for all the hunting I do....until I drop it on a rock and startle all game in a 20-mile radius).

Well, today the power of the internets solved my cane dilemma. Did you know that the TSA has confiscated over 200 canes with swords in them?! Why haven't I already gotten in on this? I mean, you probably need a waxed moustache and a Spanish accent to properly pull off the sword-in-cane look...and you'd probably need to twirl said cane or at least pose rakishly with it to get maximum effect....but still! The my-cane-might-conceal-a-dangerous-weapon look is a look I could rock.

Maybe I don't even need to have an actual sword because, let's face it, I would impale myself or someone else accidentally within 24 hours. Maybe I just need a cane that's badass enough to make people think that there might be a deadly weapon in there. A cane that says, "Don't make me unsheath whatever's lurking inside the shaft of this bad boy" (that's what he said). A cane that says, "Perhaps this is a mobility aid that allows me to walk in a less gimpy manner....or maybe it's where I keep my ninja sword!" I'm not sure what such a cane would look like (black lacquer?) but if you have any suggestions I'm open to them.

Because, let's face it, there's nothing people like better than overreacting to airport threats. One German guy gets caught with a sword in his cane and suddenly all the rest of us are going to be pulled aside for some TSA-sanctioned foreplay. Even by mentioning this, I've probably found myself on some sort of no-fly list, haven't I? Oh well. I guess any kind of fondling (even if it involves rubber gloves and the phrase "I'm just going to check to make sure you don't have artificial skin") increases my social mobility.

Can I Put Boggle-Master on my CV?

So, 2010 is only a few days old and already it's off to a rip-roaring start. There is a dead rodent in the walls of my house and my mom has busted out a half-dozen air fresheners, which has given the house the odd smell of dead rat flesh and lollipops. The exterminator who came out said that barring ripping up our walls, there's nothing to do but sit back, relax, light some incense and wait for putrification to work its magic. We're really getting the decade off right around here. (On the plus side, isn't burning sage supposed to ward off bad spirits? Can you buy it in bulk?)

It's therefore no surprise that I was looking for any excuse to leave my house, which is one reason why I showed up at a wheelchair-basketball game for the first time since the hip replacement. I think I've mentioned before about how, after a season of being hung from doorframes after every game while people tugged at my spasming leg to put it back in the socket, I was burnt out beyond belief, disappointed in myself for not being able to play through the pain (what? You mean that sometimes life doesn't go according to the script of Nike commercials?) and basically of the opinion that I would rather stab myself in the eye with one of those electrified neurologist needles than do another triple-switch within the tea-cup defense. You would therefore expect that I would be able to watch a game and think only, "Yeah, that shit used to be fun....until it made me want to rip my stupid hip off and beat myself senseless with it...and then it was not."

You would, however, be wrong. Apparently, when I said "I never want to play basketball again" I meant "I never want to play basketball again until 6 months of wearing an ass groove in my bed makes me long for the feeling of hitting a sweet-ass jumper with only a few seconds on the clock." (Shut up. I have probably hit at least one sweet-ass jumper in my career). The game was surprisingly hard to watch (and not just because of the ass-bruising involved in sitting on bleachers). I was practically humming with nervous energy, in full-blown basketball mode thinking, so-and-so should have switched earlier on D because he was in help position and so-and-so would be more successful playing up on the press if she'd sag to the level of the ball and that was a nice pick-and-roll because the off-side created good spacing....and....and.... I can't help it. When someone coined the phrase "Type A personality," the A stood for Arley.

The last time I tried wheelchair basketball, I ended up sore and disappointed. This hasn't, however, stopped me from getting coach Cheryl to bring me a wheelchair to Wednesday's practice so I can suit up for round 2. I have already started planning elaborate schemes involving neoprene straps, the removal of side guards, and the re-arranging of other straps to make my hip more comfortable. Now, some of you are probably thinking, "Uh, Arley. Could the fact that you need a ton of modification to even SIT in the wheelchair, let alone PLAY in the wheelchair be a sign that maybe you should take up needlepoint and leave wheelchair basketball to those of us who do not have semi-broken hips made out of ceramic?" To you, I respond, "My doctor said I can't do any more damage and that I could do whatever I wanted." And to those of you who say, "Could it possibly be that your doctor's definition of 'doing whatever you want' and your definition of 'doing whatever you want' are slightly different because he is banking on the fact that you are not insane?" I say, "Hey, the stupid thing is already broken and I'm going to have surgery anyhow. How much more damage can I do?" And to those of you who say, "Isn't that the same logic that got you into this mess in the first place?" I say, "Good point, but I'm doing it anyways."

After all, if my new hip is going to act like my old hip, then I'll treat it like my old hip, and let's just say that I treated my old hip rather poorly. Actually, today has really been a day of deja vu. This morning, I woke up with a sharp pain in my hip and when I forced myself into a sitting position, I heard a loud clunk as the hip went back into place. It's been a little off kilter the whole day and tonight, as I was leaving dinner with some of my basketball friends, the stupid thing locked up and my ankle got twisted around, forcing me to pull myself up using the table and stand there with my leg at some grotesque angle while everyone (except my friends, who had already left the restaurant) stared at me. Just like old times! Nothing to see here, attractive gentlemen of Granville Island! I'm just going to give my hip a sharp twist and send that bad boy back home! Seriously, if someone told me that my old hip had miraculously grown back, I would believe them.

Oh well. Besides feeling like a total tool for having to gimp out of the restaurant like someone's stroke-addled grandmother, the night actually turned out very well, mostly because it involved Jameson and a rousing game of Boggle with Shira, Elisha and Cheryl where I conducted a master's seminar on the art of Boggle-ry. Seriously, I brought the Boggle Thunder. I was throwing down eight-letter words like they were Thor's mighty hammers. I may not have a job...or a love life....or a social life....or the ability to get through a dinner without having to wretch my hip back into its socket...but sweet Mary mother of Jesus can I play Boggle. Hey, I will take an ego boost wherever I can find it.

A Long December

For the past couple of years, I have posted lyrics from that Counting Crows song as my status update on New Year's Eve: "it's been a long December and there's reason to believe that maybe this year will be better than the last." (It has, for the record, also been a long June and a long July and a long August...) For two years I've posted that status and for two years my life has hopped on a fast train to SuckVille, stopping only briefly in RidiculousTown and AreYouSeriousThisIsActuallyHappeningBerg to re-fuel. So this year, I'm modifying it a little: "it's been a long December and there's reason to believe maybe this year they will reattach my ass." See? Infinitely more practical!

I should, however, have had enough foresight to toss in another lyric from that song: "the smell of hospitals in winter and the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls" because that is exactly how I spent my New Year's Eve: in the Royal Columbian Hospital as Steph's husband got stitches after a dog bit him in the face. Is it a bad sign that I'm starting 2010 in the hospital watching an ER doctor make fun of Steph's husband while using a syringe full of saline to clean out his deep facial wounds, causing a spray of watery blood to land on my arm? Somebody call Adam Duritz because my life story is ripe for a melancholy ballad.

I guess, however, that I should be grateful that I wasn't the one with the hospital bracelet around my wrist. Also, that I managed to cram in two different parties into my NYE celebrations. First stop, to Shira and Jeff's house for a nice, low-key celebration, where I ate my weight in cheddar-flavored rice-and-soy crisps; (yeah, I know, when I party, I party hard). I couldn't drink because the only way to get from New West to Vancouver if you're not near a SkyTrain stop is to drive. I left around 1 a.m. and, because the party never stops when the ArleyMachine is a'rollin', I drove back to New West for a party with Steph and her friends, where I kicked it up another notch by sippin' on some club soda with lemon.

Luckily, my hard-core partying (I might have even had some carrot sticks) didn't interfere with my ability to drive Steph's husband to the hospital, so I finished the night by flirting with (okay, it was not so much flirting with as it was 'speaking words to') the cute ER doctor. It was certainly a memorable evening. May old acquaintances be...smart enough keep their faces away from a cranky dog's mouth.

I guess all that's left is to set some New Year's resolutions. The problem is that there's so much to choose from. In 2010, I will need to get a city/country to live in, a job, an apartment, a date, a social life and a hip that doesn't make me stagger around like a New Year's Eve reveler after too much bubbly. That's a To-Do list longer than Barack Obama's! Here, then, are some things that I would like to do in 2010 (as opposed to things I have to do...like get my shit together).

1. Get myself back on a good sleep schedule. Since becoming unemployed, I've gotten into the bad habit of going to bed at 1 a.m. and not getting up until 10. All I need is a World of Warcraft addiction and I would be the poster child for slackerness.
2. Try, for about the millionth time, to kick my Diet Coke addiction and get back on the wagon. Diet Coke is my crack. If I could inject it in veins, I could.
3. Drink more water.
4. Figure out different types of exercise I can do. Right now, I'm pretty much stuck with the elliptical machine or swimming (which sucks because I have to do it at Canada Games Pool along with dozens of other people in the same lane trying to kick you in the head). It would be so nice to do exercise that's actually meaningful and challenging. Every time I watch a basketball game on TV, I get a little twitchy.

Happy New Years, Young-And-Hip-sters!

Elementary, My Dear Watson!

I just returned from watching the new "Sherlock Holmes" movie (along with roughly 3/4 of people in the Greater Vancouver area...seriously, there was a mini riot at the ticket counter and I was forced to sit 3 rows from the front), which stars that sexy beast Robert Downey Jr., and it has become instantly apparent what I need to make my life better/cooler: a carved wooden walking stick that acts as the sheath for an immense dagger, which I could activate whenever I was in danger and use it to kick ass and take names. Dr. Watson has one of these in the movie and I think it would be just dandy for a variety of reasons:

1. A "walking stick" trumps a "cane" because the former belongs to sophisticated, wealthy people who can list 'strolling' as a hobby along with 'collecting 17th century writing desks' and the latter belongs to me and half the old people at my grandma's care home.
2. While the fact that I am 6 foot 2 (and will soon be 6 foot 2.5!) gives me some natural defenses, it never hurts to have a dagger concealed on your person, especially since today someone broke into my dad's car and a few days ago someone broke into my mom's car.
   
3. Even if my walking stick does not have a hidden dagger, people have seen enough movies where walking sticks conceal weaponry that they might decide not to fuck with me just to be safe. Also, worse case scenario, I could pull some Splinter-style Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action and generally throw down. If an arthritic anthropomorphic rat can do it, so can I! Bonus: instead of being a "hero in a half-shell," I could be a "hero with a half-ass." Double bonus: perhaps my ninja skills could be parlayed into a career as a crime fighter, which is probably the only thing I'm qualified to do with an MFA.
4. People would think, "Is she disabled or is she just preparing for a long and arduous hike?" instead of, "Hey, my grandpa had a cane just like that. Someone should give that girl a Werther's Original."
   

There are, however, down sides to consider. I would have to sacrifice my "comfort-grip" handle; (how easy is it to hold on to a carved eagle's head?). I might also look like one of those assholes who wears a cape, has a scraggly ponytail, carries a cane for non-walking-assistance-related purposes, and addresses everyone with an affected British accent as "m'lady" or "m'lord." There were a couple of those at U of I and something about them always filled me with a powerful surge of rage. (Granted, many things fill me with rage: like metafiction...and the fact that I haven't been able to wash my left foot for 6 months because I just can't reach the fucking thing).

Anyhow, yes, I must admit that it would be easier to pull off a walking stick if I lived in the 1800s. Since I don't, however, I'll continue my hunt for something that's a little less geriatric (but also allows me to walk with minimal gimpiness).

In other news, my new laptop is fantastic. It's so nice to be able to actually put the computer on top of your lap, which was not possible with my previous Macbook because the battery would get so hot that it would burn my thighs; (and to those of you asking whether that's the only burning I've had in my loin-region lately, shut up. I will start dating when I can successfully move my leg well enough to do the hokey pokey. I mean, how are you going to rock a headboard if you can't even put your left leg in, pull your left leg out, put your left leg in and shake it all about?)

The Stay-Put Triathlon

I don't do the whole "staying put" thing very well. Those people who can sit merrily on a beach for hours and work on their suntans while on vacation and return home feeling well-rested? I am not one of those. I do not do "well rested." I do "run myself into the ground and then collapse in a heap and sleep for hours." I am one of those people who annoys the hell out of anyone else on vacation with constant, "I'm going to go for a walk! I'm going to go for a swim! I'm going to do some form of physical activity in the hot sun, which will result in mild-to-moderate sun stroke and hip pain that will confine me to bed for the rest of the day!" This time last year, I was getting up at 5:30 a.m., training full time for wheelchair basketball, teaching two courses, finishing my thesis, working for the literary magazine Ninth Letter, weight-training, socializing with friends, traveling on a bus throughout the country, all the while dragging my hip kicking and screaming behind me.

Fast forward to now. Am I working? Well, yes, but not for pay. Am I training for anything? Only if "trying not to walk like a drunken zombie" counts as a sport. Am I enjoying a busy and active social life? Only if hanging out with the good people of reality television counts as a social life. Am I writing anything new and exciting? No, since my last novel is done and I can't begin writing about my hip replacement until I know how this whole "will I walk again?" thing turns out. So what's a hyper-motivated, relentlessly frustrated, Type-A gal to do? Train for a triathlon!

When I first started considering having a hip replacement, one of my post-replacement goals was to do a triathlon, until my surgeon told me that I could do one but I would find myself on the operating table again roughly a year after surgery. (Despite all the photos of ruggedly handsome 40-something guys on hip replacement websites jogging in the woods, running is apparently the one thing you have to kiss goodbye post-surgery). Then he wondered aloud if I fit the "psychological profile" of someone who thrives with a hip replacement. So, fine, I put that particular dream on the shelf and soon I was wrapped up with all the melodrama of the surgery and the recovery.

There are a couple of things standing in the way of me doing a triathlon:

• I can't run.
• I can't ride a bike.
• Walking...yeah, not so good.
• Dislike of wearing spandex.

I wasn't, however, about to let a little thing like "inability to perform 2/3 of the events involved in a triathlon" stand in the way of glory. What, I thought, if instead of running, I used the elliptical machine? And what if I rode the stationary bike instead of riding a real bike? It would be just like a real triathlon...except I would be in one place. And I wouldn't be surrounded by hundreds of people with 1% bodyfat while wearing spandex. And I would do it indoors, so I wouldn't have to stuff my workout clothes with dozens of those little "foot warmer" packets. And I wouldn't have to struggle out of a wet swimsuit in public without the help of my grabber. And no one would kick me in the head during the swimming portion.

In fact, my "stay-in-one-place triathlon" seems like the perfect triathlon. It's all the glamour of doing a real triathlon, without the chance of permenantly ruining my artificial hip or getting hypothermia. Plus, now whenever anyone asks, "So, Arley, how did the hip replacement go?" Instead of having to say, "Yeah, not the greatest. Quadriplegics laugh at me whenever I walk unassisted." I can say, "Oh, you know, it's had its ups and downs, but now I'm training for a triathlon."

So, that's it. I've downloaded some triathlon training plans from the internets and I'm ready to go! Today's plan: 24 minute swim, 48-minute bike. We'll see how my hip tolerates this one.

Short on Long-term Goals

One great thing about having a hip replacement is that it tends to concentrate your life down into a singular focus: how to learn how to walk again. For three months, you don't think, "Gee, I wonder if I should be worried that I'm 26 years old and relentlessly unemployed and that the entire sum of my life's work so far is 'used to put a ball through a hoop. Wrote about said experience in novel form. Got a highly lucrative master's degree in creative writing. Own a cat with whom I am apparently not currently on speaking terms.'" All you think is, "Heel toe. Heel toe. Heel toe." It's a little bit zen-like.

Better yet, elderly relatives are too busy asking you about your recovery to politely inquire about what happened to that nice boy you used to "go around with," the one who was so handsome even if he did look a little bit "ethnic," and whether you plan to get serious about anyone since when they were your age, they had three children and ladies in that day and age didn't even talk to a man if they didn't consider him a worthy prospect and it's such a shame that these so-called modern women don't mind giving away the milk for free. For three months post-surgery, no one is trying to set you up with their cousin's friend's brother. No one asks you what you plan on "doing" with that degree of yours. No one wonders aloud if they're ever going to be a grandparent. All anyone's concerned about is whether you'll be able to walk again.

Having a hip replacement is also a lovely excuse for procrastination. After all, they tell you in the little hip-replacement handbook that you shouldn't work for at least six weeks. And no employer is going to want someone who has to go to physio for hours on end. And it's probably best not to go on a date when you have to bring along a four-inch foam cushion, a grabber, and handout of acceptable post-surgical sex positions. Everything is very simple. Rehab. More rehab. Reality TV. Have your mom bring you a sandwich and some frozen grapes and maybe some fizzy water with a splash of orange juice but not too much because citrus fruits make your hives worse.

Well, I'm walking a great deal better than I was before, the pity party is over and it's time to start spinning the wheel in the Game of Life. Since March, I've managed to retire from competitive sport, graduate from grad school, and get a hip replacement. I am post-retirement, post-grad and post-surgical. The problem is that now that most of the things that were keeping me occupied have now disappeared, I need fewer "posts" and more "pre"s and "peri"s. In short, I need to take a page out of Stalin or Mao's handbook and get myself a Five Year Plan (without, you know, murdering any bourgeois parasites or erecting a home-made steel mill in my backyard).

The problem is, however, that my long-term goals are listed below:

• Drink whiskey with Dan Bejar of Destroyer/Swan Lake/New Pornographers fame and somehow be super-cool and suave while doing so as opposed to, say, fainting or blubbering that I like totally think he's awesome and love his music.
• Write pretty words and have people pay me for doing so.
• Live in a place where I can ride my bike to go grocery shopping. (Granted, I cannot yet ride a bike and do not own one, but this is why it's a long-term goal).
• Meet Michael Ondaatje and somehow be super-cool and suave while doing so as opposed to, say, fainting or blubbering that I totally think he's awesome and love his writing and want to have his babies and have considered getting some of his poetry tattooed on my hip and that he is my imaginary literary boyfriend.
• Do a triathalon, except I had to strike this from the list because if i run I'll end up finding my ass back in an operating room.
• Keep on rocking in the free world.
• Keep on keeping on.
• Don't stop believing.
• Hold on to that fee-eeeling.
• Streetlight! People! It goes on and on and on and on
• Get a job that will prevent me from starving/freezing to death but which will also allow me time to write. Right now, that job seems to be "have Oprah feature my novel on her show, which will allow me to get a million dollars in royalties and retire to Berkeley where I can ride my bicycle to cute organic markets and raise babies."

So, apparently half of those goals are not actually goals but Journey lyrics, so this could be a problem. Anyone know Oprah's phone number?