Shedding and Shredding: My Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred

When I played varsity wheelchair basketball, the pre-season conditioning/team building/Stockholm-syndrome-acquiring exercise was "ramps." Both the men's and women's teams would meet at Memorial Hall Football stadium at 6:30 a.m., which at that hour would be would be so cold that your fingers would be too numb to grip the pushrims. The coach would put two trash cans on the bottom level-- they smelled like rotten soda and rust -- for everyone to vomit in. For several hours, we would push up and down the steep concrete ramps: short pushes, long pushes, power starts and stops, backwards. You'd get to the bottom, take off another layer of clothes and gulp some water before the coach shouted 'Go!' and you'd push back up past dead birds and oil stains, sometimes past the maintenance guys on golf carts, the exhaust of which would both choke you and give you a contact high. When "Living on a Prayer" came on the boombox exactly halfway through the workout, the entire team would sing along, and the dozens of voices echoing Bon Jovi off the concrete walls made the stadium sound like church.

Anyhow, it was hard work. It was really hard work.  (Josh Birnbaum documented it in the photo essay 'Uphill Battle.' Click on the link and scroll right until you get to the 5th image). But at the top, you'd get to look for a few seconds out over Champaign-Urbana looking all stark-midwestern-pretty in the August light. Your brain would be flooded with exercise endorphins, the breeze from the windows would feel good against your salt-encrusted skin, and you would think: damn, I have done a really hard thing. During the next hard thing -- say shoveling your car out of a few feet of snow to get to practice in the dark at 5:30 in the morning -- you'd think, "Well, hell. I got through ramps. This isn't going to kill me."

For the past three years since the hip replacements, I have missed that sense of accomplishment you get from pushing your body to its physical limits. Because of the two hip replacements, I can never  play wheelchair basketball again: a fact that's taken me a long time to accept. Given that "Take it Easy" is just a Jackson Browne song in my world, I've been trying to find something that will give me the same feeling.

First, I wanted to be a runner. Runners get to achieve personal bests and cross finish lines and show off their well-toned asses in spandex as they glide along the Vancouver Seawall. Not to mention that running is free, and, unlike using the elliptical machine, you don't have to spend hours pondering why the person next to you felt the need to eat 20 cloves of garlic as a pre-workout snack. So, despite the fact that running is a no-go for people with hip replacements, I downloaded a little training plan from the Internet and set to work. I will spare you the messy details, but let's just say that it's hard to really get a sweat on when people are stopping you every 5 minutes to ask if you're alright. If you need a visual image of me running, think of those blow-up noodle-y figures they have at car lots.

So, fine. Running was out. Next, I got a one-month Groupon to a gym that offered a bunch of fitness classes thinking I would try them all until I found one that worked. Spin classes caused my hip to swell up faster than a Real Housewife's lips. At Jazzercise, the instructor stopped the entire class to a) praise my T-shirt (which featured Omar from The Wire) and b) inform me that I "needed to be a little jazzier." (When you walk through the garden, you better watch your jazz hands). By 'jazzier,' he likely meant "try to look less like a giraffe suffering from a severe neuro-muscular disorder,' but in fairness, it's not easy to be jazzy when you're surrounded by small, pert women who have been taking this class so long that they probably wake up in the middle of the night grape-vining. Exercise classes were out.

I tried biking, but the combination of "missing half your ass" and "jamming your ass repetitively* against a hard bike seat" is not a successful one, no matter how many pairs of padded shorts you wear. Plus, when I realized that the learning curve for biking outside involved the risk of getting beat-up by an aggressive Vancouver cyclist (yeah, chime chime to you too, wanker) or getting smoked by a semi, it became clear that cycling wasn't for me. I try to avoid activities that have a high percent chance of turning me into meat-paste.

*Apologies in advance to anyone who found this post by googling the above phrase and is now deeply disappointed.

And so, I arrived at the wonderful world of at-home exercise DVDs. I picked up the Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred (and her 'Shed and Shred,' which I plan to do next) because I watched The Biggest Loser obsessively when I was in bed for 8 months following the first hip replacement, and because years of being coached make me respond well to someone shouting at me. (In fairness, Jillian Michaels is not super shout-y in the videos).

The concept is simple: The 30 Day Shred has 3 levels of punishing circuit-style 30-minute workouts and you do them for 10 days each. I figured they'd be short enough that my hip wouldn't swell up, but challenging enough that I'd feel a sense of achievement when I finished the entire plan.

And I was right! Though I had to make a few modifications for exercises that I didn't have enough hip flexion to do, (looking at you, Mountain Climbers), I quickly fell in love with the program. It was great starting every day with an exercise endorphin high. I could flail around in the comfort of my own home where only my cat and boyfriend would judge me. Actually, being an expert at both 'shedding' and 'shredding,' Mika was more than happy to pitch in. During push-ups, she'd lay underneath me and lick my nose every time I dipped down to her level.  It didn't even matter that, because of my ground floor apartment, people would routinely peer into my living room with perplexed expressions, trying to work out whether I was channeling spirits/ speaking in tongues/ summoning the rain gods. It also didn't matter that my clomping around made the entire apartment complex shake (Arley Stomp! Arley Smash! Arley Do Jump Squats With The Daintiness of Donkey Kong!). I was feeling good.

Now, when you've had two hip replacements and your ligaments are basically held together with duct tape and you've got all of the '-itis'es, there are bound to be hiccups. My 30 Day Shred was actually more of a 33-Day Shred, because I took three days off after my knee took issue to over-compensating for my hip and decided to go rogue. In the days of yore, a sore knee would have translated in my brain into "shut up body! You're not the boss of me! Watch me push through harder until I literally cannot walk and THAT will teach you." These days, however, I've dialed the intensity down several crucial notches. I realized that it's better to do a 33-Day Shred, than a 30-Day-And-Knee-Reconstructive-Surgery Shred. When I returned after the three days, I even helped my knee get through the rest of the workout with ice packs, anti-inflammatories and anti-inflammatory cream. I'm not sure if this is what maturity feels like, or if this what old age feels like.

And so, today, I got ready for the final day of the 30 Day Shred. I imagined how triumphant I would feel. Perhaps there would be an exclamation-point-filled Facebook status update. Perhaps I would cue up "Eye of the Tiger" and dance around my apartment while Mika looked on with deep scorn. My back had been stiff and achy for the past couple days, but during the warm-up I was feeling okay. During the first circuit set I was feeling okay. And then, during the one-handed clean-and-jerks of Circuit 2, I felt a sharp pain in my back. The pain shot down my leg and into my knee. There is the good pain (the kind that leads to you getting mightier) and then there's the bad pain (the kind that leads to bed rest), and this was the latter.

I stopped. I paused the DVD. I limped around my apartment. The pain didn't go away. I got a glass of water. I limped some more. The pain didn't go away. Every step sent a blast of pain from my back to my hip to my knee. I turned off the video and hit the showers, feeling more disappointed than I'd been in years, feeling like I'd fallen on my face a few steps from the finish line. I mean, there is no medal for finishing the 30 Day Shred, but I'd wanted to kick its ass. I wanted to do the thing I had set out to do. I wanted a moment like I'd had on the ramps, where I'd done a hard thing that would propel me to accomplish more hard things (like, say, finishing the novel I've been working on).

Now that a few hours have passed and I am sitting here with an icepack on my back, however, I am trying to see my almost-30 Day Shred differently. Before the hip replacement, I routinely pushed my body further than I should have. I got injured or sick, played through, got more injured, played through, got frustrated because I couldn't understand why things weren't improving, played through, blamed myself for not trying hard enough, played through. I bought into all those Nike commercials about pain being weakness leaving the body. But sometimes pain is not weakness leaving the body. Sometimes pain is just damage happening. Knowing the difference is not the kind of slogan that looks good on a T-shirt, but it does prevent you from having further hip replacements.

And so I will declare my 30 Day Shred to be a qualified success. I did have to modify it. I did take more than 30 days to do it. I did stop with 11 and a half minutes left to go in the final damn workout, turn off the DVD and walk away. But I also achieved more leg strength than I've ever had. I did both walking and traveling push-ups from my toes. I did lose an inch around every part of my body and about 6 pounds overall. And, if I do say so myself, my ass is looking damn impressive...ish.

I guess that's the take-away message for those trying to work out with arthritis, or post hip-replacement. You push until you feel the wrong kind of pain, you take a step back to recover, and then you push on. Your path to success looks like stairs, not like a ramp. You do small difficult things over and over again until they are no longer difficult.

Getting Back On the Bike

This May, I rode a bike for the first time in 17 years.

You might say to me, “Wow, riding a bicycle. Colour me impressed. It’s not like my four-year-old niece goes off-road extreme mountain biking and punches cougars in the face when she encounters them out in the wilderness or my 80-year-old grandma is training for her 18^th triathlon and built her own bike out of the bamboo she cut down herself during her trip to Nepal or anything. Did you bust out your fanny pack for your epic trip around the Seawall?”

Okay, yes, I realize that I am living in the epicenter of the Active Westcoast Lifestyle and everyone and their dog rides a bike here. This, however, is a big deal to me because it’s literally the only thing I can do post-hip-replacement that I couldn’t do before. (Well, I have found a few extra uses besides bike riding for my newfound ability to straddle, but let’s not go into that).

I resisted posting about this for several months because the person who taught me how the ride a bike is someone I was casually dating at the time. It’s a long-standing opinion of mine that blogging about an ex (even a casual, short-term-relationship type ex) is a one-way ticket to AwkwardTown with stops along the way at AiringYourDirtyLaundryInAWayThatWillCauseYouShameVille and TheMinuteYouMentionDatingCreepersOnTheInternetAreImaginingYouFucking-opolis.

I’ve decided to blog about learning how to ride a bike, however, because so much of Young and Hip has chronicled my disappointment with my hip replacement. I often get emails asking me if I regret it, and I worry that I am talking people out of a life-altering surgery. But even though I’m over a year post-hip-replacement (and two years since the first one), my hip still swells up like the ass of a baboon in heat if I try to do such extreme sports as…deep water aerobics. Or walking down the street. Or sitting in a chair for longer than 20 minutes. I still walk with a cane. I can never play wheelchair basketball again. If I work out for more than a couple of days a week, I’m in constant pain. Over the past year, I’ve honestly struggled with the knowledge that this is as good as my hip will ever get.

But back to the bicycling. I met D. on an online dating site. I was immediately comfortable around him, which is astounding because usually on dates I talk like a crack-addicted LOLcat (“O HAI!!”) and knock things over with my elaborate hand gestures. A few weeks after we met, I mentioned that I wanted to learn how to ride a bike. I joked about getting adult training wheels so I wouldn’t fall and bring about Total Hip Replacement 3: Rise of the Prosthetic Fractures. D offered to teach me.

I assumed that he meant that we would rent a bike by the seawall and he would attempt to catch me if I looked to be veering towards certain death. But D. surprised me by researching how to safely teach an adult how to ride a bicycle. Thanks to a few websites and several Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies becoming confident cyclists, he came up with a plan. (Is it a bad sign that one of the nicer things a man has ever done for me involved Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies?)

And so, on one of those rare Spring days when it’s sunny in Vancouver and your Seasonal Affective Disorder calls in sick, D and I went to Stanley Park armed only with the wisdom of the internet. D’s method involved me coasting down a grassy hill first with my feet touching the ground to get a feel for the movement, then again with my feet up, then finally while pedaling. And it was….really easy. Though the writer in me died a little, I had to admit that the cliché is true: you really never forget.

This was a surprise because when I tried to ride a bike several years before the hip replacement, I couldn’t get my left leg on the pedals, it nearly got caught in the chain and A. (who was holding on to both me and the bike) and I ran into a tree. This time, however, I took off riding up a hill. Wobbly, yes. Slow, absolutely. Graceful, sure as hell not. I, however, felt like Lance Fucking Armstrong winning the Tour De Fuck You Hip Replacement Because That Shit Just Happened.

D. and I took a break for lunch and then he rented a bike and we rode together around the Seawall. Because of my lack of speed and the fact that I was wobbling more than Lindsey Lohan after a rough night, cyclists kept chiming at me. At first, I mistook this for a friendly salute, as if they were saying, “Greetings and salutations fellow cycling enthusiast! May your journey be safe and free of ass-chafing!”, but D. informed me that ringing your bell is actually cyclist speak for “fuck you.” (Well chime chime to you too, Vancouver bike commuters).

Soon, however, I was coasting down hills, picking up speed and wondering how long it had been since I’d gone fast. That’s the one thing I miss about sport, and it’s something that elliptical machines can’t replace: just going balls out fast. I will spare you any clichés of feeling free – nothing’s free in Vancouver, let’s be honest – but for the first time my long recovery felt over. I was ‘better.’ Sure, it wasn’t the better I expected or wanted, but even though my hip was swollen and my back was sore and my anti-ass was like “fuck off right here and now,” it seemed like a better I could live with.

I looked at D., who was flushed from pedaling and who had gone to all this effort to teach me how to do something he didn’t even enjoy, and at Stanley Park, which was being all picture-post-cardy, and I thought: Best. Date. Ever. And that feeling continued for several more weeks….until it didn’t. And then it was over. There’s a Gloria Steinem joke here somewhere.

After the breakup, I’ll admit that I spent a day or two sulkily listening to “Blood on the Tracks,” but it doesn’t take long to get over a six-week thing with someone you only saw a couple of times a week. And it’s even easier once you realize that that the only thing shittier than a breakup is being unable to date because you’re stuck in bed post-surgery injecting yourself with bloodthinners and groggily watching some reality TV show about the joys of home renovation.

Because – watch out people! Literary Device Alert! Here comes a very subtle metaphor because I am a fancy, fancy writer! – after two years of medical limbo, I am happy to be back on the dating bike, and the social life bike, and the getting the fuck on with my life bike. (That’s a lot of bikes. What’s the metaphorical equivalent of padded bike shorts?) And even though it means accepting the notion that the cane is here to stay, I’m happy that the Great Hip Replacement Debacle is receding into a small point in the rear view mirror. It’s nice to not to catch myself starting the bulk of my stories with, “So I was at physio and an old lady said…”

So even though it didn’t lead to happily ever after, I’m glad to have a story that begins with the phrase “So I was dating this guy and he taught me how to ride a bike,” even if it ends with the phrase “yes, grandma, I’m still single. No, I’m not a lesbian.” Because several weeks after D. and I broke up, I bought myself a bike. Her name is Dorothy Mantooth and right now I only ride her around the quiet streets in my neighbourhood because cars seem like huge metal dinosaurs chasing me, though I have delusions of becoming a Serious Biker Who Wears Spandex And Refuels With Those Energy Gels.

A few weeks ago, I rode around the Seawall again. I passed a gaggle of elderly ladies stopping every few seconds to take photos of birds. I passed a tourist couple who kept announcing Vancouver’s beauty every 3.8 seconds to one another. I even passed a pair of girls who looked mildly athletic. Granted, I got my ass handed to me by several middle-aged rollerbladers, but let’s go ahead and chalk this up to a solid victory.

So if you’re in the Vancouver area and you see a very tall girl on a white bike making the Seawall her bitch, that is me, and I’m passing on the left. Chime chime, motherbitches!

And if you’re not in Vancouver and you’ve had a hip replacement and are looking for a safe way to relearn how to ride a bike without falling, here is a video of me doing so on a very good day with a guy I was dating. If you want to do a drinking game to this clip, take a shot everytime I say “yay!”

Invisible Cartoon Old People Porn....YES!

As expected, the move back to Vancouver was rough (emotional Arley + emotional cat + wheelchair + heavy bag + leaving forever + impending surgery and months of recovery + tons of stuff to do for work + sleep deprivation + did I mention leaving forever? is not exactly a recipe for awesomeness), but we made it here in one piece. I could spend roughly 12,400 words rehashing my complex feelings on leaving, how much I'm going to miss everyone, and how heartbroken I am every time I see poor Mika curled up on A.'s shirt at the corner of my bed, nuzzling it as if she could make A. reappear by doing so, then laying down on it with her head between her paws with a look of pure feline longing. Cat heartbreak is the very worst heartbreak of all!


But let's leave the emo-ness to the cat because we have more important topics to discuss....Invisible Cartoon Old People Hip Replacement Porn!

The day after I got back from Illinois, I went to the OASIS hip/knee-replacement orientation session. In truth, I tried to weasel my way out of it on account of the fact that I am perhaps a little too well oriented in what to expect following a hip replacement. If anything, I would like to become less oriented so that the mere sight of that stupid "sock aid" sitting on a chair in my room ready to aid me in spending 15 minutes just to put on a single freaking sock doesn't give me PTSD flashbacks. I decided to go, however, for two reasons: 1) the lady on the phone insisted in a very firm voice that it was mandatory and I am nothing if not compliant and 2) the last time I did the OASIS program, some chick fainted and I like being around people whose coping skills are worse than my own.

I will spare you a rehashing of the OASIS session. Suffice to say that it is like kindergarten class for people who are getting their limbs sawed off and reassembled. Some nice lady with a calm, gentle, day-care-y voice teaches you to how to avoid post-surgical constipation and demonstrates the best way to inject your stomach fat with bloodthinners to avoid bruising. Just when I was thinking that the day was going to be a waste of time, however, I spied a thick booklet on a pamphlet rack by the OASIS lady's shoulder: Sex After Total Joint Replacement. Let the real lessons begin!

The first time around, all I got was a one-page handout discreetly tucked into a folder of other hip-replacement info. This time, however, they've pulled out all the stops. For starters, the manual stars an elderly couple who resemble the neighbor couple from Dennis the Menace...and let's just say that in this booklet, Martha's doing a lot more than needlepoint.




On one hand, I can understand the thought process behind the cartoon old people. After all, you don't want Doris Q. Hip-Replacement-Patient to be stuck in her fanciest flannel teddy staring at the handout thinking, "Well, damn. In the diagram, your breasts are supposed to be right here, but mine are down by my bellybutton....It's so confusing! I just can't make it all line up!" On the other hand, however, I'm not sure why they felt the need to include images such as this one:


Yes, ladies and gentlemen. That is a cartoon rendering of an old man counting the days until his lady love's post-surgical bruising has gone down to the point that he can rock her compression socks off.

Or this one, which I'm pretty sure depicts the same old guy waiting for his Viagra to kick in while the pamphlet warns about the post-surgical risk of...um....an arid climate in the lady garden:

Why does he look so downcast and alone? Is it because the clock on his chest is counting down the seconds until his sex-induced heart attack? Or maybe it's causing him to reminisce about the time he spent touring with Flava Flav? Who knows? Someone get this guy a Werther's Original because he needs to cheer the hell up. I mean, he's about to get some serious action. Perk up, buddy!

Of course, what would a post-hip-replacement sex manual be if elderly cartoon people didn't demonstrate the acceptable positions? I love some of the graphic-design choices that were made here. Eyes: no. Mouth: no. Perfect 1950s-old-lady updo: MANDATORY. Pearl earrings: ALSO MANDATORY. (Those of you about to make a 'pearl necklace' joke need to check yourselves). And if you ever want to know what exactly your beloved Gran-Gran and Pop-Pop were doing on that rocking chair you used to love as a child...the one with the hand-crocheted afghan....



I especially love the positioning of the artificial hip in this last position. It seems to say, "Oh, God, Walter. Take me with your four inches of medical-grade cobalt chrome! Don't stop!" (Too much? Too much).

But wait! Don't leave to go wash your eyeballs out with acid! It gets better. Do you want to know what this is? Do you want to take a guess?
If you guessed "an image of someone's Granny calling the doctor after she has f*cked her husband's hip right out of its socket," then give yourself a hand! Clearly, someone got a little in to the old cowgirl rocking-chair routine and is going to have a great story to tell to the Bridge Club. Apparently when you put a little Crown Royal in her Ensure meal supplements, she goes wild! You git it, girl!

But..see...here's the problem. I am single. It's bad enough that for ages post-surgery I'm going to have to greet potential suitors with the phrase, "It's nice to meet you. Let me put down this walker so that I can shake your hand." And I'm pretty sure that any sex that requires you to cross-reference your positions with any type of manual is not the kind of sex I want to have. But even if I did want to give some lucky gentleman this booklet as a little homework assignment, what do you think the reaction's going to be? "Thanks for this reading material, darling. I was worried about how to accommodate your post-surgical needs, but now that I mentally associate you with eye-less cartoon old people, I am suddenly overcome with wild feelings of lust! You can consider me officially in the throes of desire!"

Okay, OASIS program. Thanks a lot. You can consider me officially oriented. So oriented that I'm about to buy a few more cats and a pint of Haagen Daaz and call it a day.

These Boots Are Made for Gimping and That's Just What They'll Do.

When I started "Young and Hip" nearly four months ago, I rather optimistically captioned it "a 20-something's guide to rocking the hip replacement." My original plan was to chronicle my successful recovery and so prepare other 20-somethings for their hip replacements. Well, yeah, that didn't quite go as planned and the only "rocking" I'm doing these days involves me playing air guitar in the car while listening to Destroyer, and that's not so much 'rocking' as it is 'flailing my hands around while looking constipated.' In fact, a brief glance at my post labels will show you that there are 12 posts about my anti-ass (this could be why so many people wind up at this blog by searching for "ass massage" or "sex needle" (???)), 13 posts about 'disappointments' and only 5 posts for hip-replacement 'tips and tricks.' Sadder still, there are only 2 posts labeled "triumphs" and one of those triumphs was me getting a literary agent, which is not exactly hip-replacement related.

Well, let's make that 3 posts about triumphs because, after a week of experimentation with coat hangers (those of you about to make a back-room abortion joke should give yourself a slap on the wrist) in an attempt to go fishing for my zipper, I have finally achieved a post-hip-replacement goal that has eluded me for the past 6 months: I put on boots. You might be thinking, "wow. Gee. Congratulations Arley. Are you going to talk about your boots in the same excruciating detail as you talked about your monkey slippers because if so, I think I'll stop now and cruise on over to that website with the hilarious cats who can't spell."

Now, granted, this might not be a big deal for those of you who can touch your toes, but for those of us who spent 20 minutes risking great bodily harm yesterday in an attempt to cut their toenails, this is major progress. Being able to put on boots a couple of days ago would have prevented me from ruining my slippers and risking trench foot by walking 2.5 miles in the rain (ok, that was still a stupid idea, but it would have been a less stupid idea if done wearing boots). Being able to wear boots would have also prevented me from dressing up for my birthday in my skinny jeans and cool-ass stripy beat-poet-y sweater and then having to finish the ensemble off with a pair of old-lady running shoes complete with elastic laces (geriatric chic).

Well, my fashion woes are no more. I finally figured out how to put on my boxer-turned-domanatrix leather boots and I was so excited that I actually put on leggings (something else that's pretty difficult to do for me and involves the assistance of several pieces of furniture for support and a bed for a soft spot in case I fall) and a skirt. How did I do it, you ask? Simple:

1. Take a few minutes to awkwardly put on your socks, lamenting the fact that you haven't put socks on straight since the surgery and so can feel the seam of the sock against the side of your foot and cannot. do. anything. about. it.
2. Sit down in a chair that has legs (a couch or bed will not work for reasons that will shortly become apparent. This was the mistake that was preventing me from boot greatness over the past week).
3. Take your boot in one hand and, with the other hand, lift your foot at attempt to guide it into the boot. Succeed in a) bunching up the sock and b) getting the tip of your foot into the boot by wiggling your toes.
   
4. Take your foot (still part-way inside the boot) and pull it underneath the chair (hence why you can't do it on a couch or bed) while scooting your anti-ass forward, then reach behind you, underneath the chair, and put the boot on the rest of the way. If your body looks like a greater-than symbol ( > ) you're doing it right.
   
5. Do the zipper part-way up, despite the fact that the sock is bunched up.
6. Put your foot back in front of you and do the zipper up the rest of the way.
7. Have a nap because that shit is exhausting.

Small victories, ladies and gentlemen. Small victories.

Walking a Mile in My Shoes (Okay, maybe not a mile. And maybe 'walk' is too enthusiastic a verb)

As I've said before, having a hip replacement in summer was a good read and is probably the best decision I've made in this last 5 years, (which, if you're familiar with my talent of messing up my life in astounding and intricate ways, probably doesn't say much). Anyhow, the benefit of a summer hip replacement is that you can walk outside without slipping on a wet/icy sidewalk, your post-surgery depression isn't worsened by endless fog and rain (or, in the case of the Midwest, temperatures so cold you could literally die by going outside without protection) and (best of all!) you don't have to spend 20 minutes a day trying to put on pair of running shoes/boots because you can slip your feet into the faux-Croc rubber Mary Janes you got four years ago at the B.C. ferry terminal and which you have worn so often that they are about two weeks away from crumbling into dust.

In order to perfect my gait pattern, however, my physiotherapist has talked me into putting on running shoes. It turns out that you can probably change the oil in your car, build yourself some custom cabinets and perform cataract surgery using fewer tools than what I need to put on my shoes. So here, for those of you who want to add an extra dose of complexity into your day by putting on your New Balances using more tools than there are at an Ed Hardy fashion show, here are the steps:

1. Outfit your running shoes in those curly no-tie elastic laces. Where can you find such laces? In the medical supply store. Somewhere between the incontinence supplies and the adult bibs. (Hint: the rainbow ones bring an extra dose of glam and go with every outfit).
2. Gather up your socks, shoes, shoe horn, sock aid, grabber, a bottle of bourbon, some Valium and every last ounce of patience that hasn't dwindled away from spending the past 2 months in bed watching Ty Pennington's meth-fueled enthusiasm for over-decorating. Look down at your feet and think, "God, I have hairy feet. I look like a hobbit." (Reason #452 why I'm still single).
   
3. Take your sock aid, (see accompanying photo), roll it up and insert it into a sock. (By the way, doesn't that guy in the photo look like he's in some state of zen mastery? He's the Yoda of sock aids. You can imagine him saying, "Do or do not, young Jedi. There is no try.") Make sure to put the sock on straight because, if you don't, you will walk around for the rest of the day thinking, "Damn. Is there something in my shoe?" but then realize that it's just the sock's seam rubbing against your foot and there's nothing you can do about it because by now you're out of the house and you don't have your sock aid. And then you will cry real tears.
   
4. Think, hey, I wonder if this sock aid could be used to help fat guys put on condoms. (Yes, I realize that I used this joke in my novel, but since it's probably the one thing in my novel that was true-to-life about having a hip replacement, I'm recycling it).
5. Lower the sock aid by the string and go fishing for your feet, which should not be hard because those bad boys are size 9 and have arches higher than several Lower Mainland bridges.
6. Wiggle your toes into the sock, making sure you keep your foot straight, which is no easy feat (no pun intended) because your foot is twisted after 2 years of rolling your ankle whenever your hip wandered out of the socket.
   
7. Pull upwards on the string so that the sock slides (crookedly) on. If you drop the string, swear, use your grabber to pick it up, and try it again.
8. Stare for several long moments at your running shoe, wondering how in the world you are going to do this without throwing something through a window.
9. Steel yourself. Say, "patience, don't fail me now." Say, "Do or do not. There is no try!" Take several deep, calming breaths (and maybe a low-grade sedative and a shot of whiskey).
10. Drop the shoe and use the grabber to push it so that it aligns with your foot. Stick in the shoe horn.
    
11. Try to wiggle your toes into the shoe without getting the tongue caught under your foot.
12. Sigh. Pick the shoe back up with the grabber, try to pull the tongue up, but it keeps sliding down again, so loosen the elastic laces, but that doesn't work because you so obviously suck at life and why can't you get this when old grandpa in the picture is rocking this with ease.
    
13. Use the grabber to hold the tongue up, but the grabber's claws don't have the grip strength to do the job and, besides, you lack the coordination.
14. Stick your foot in to the shoe and slip it on using the shoe horn. Try to use the grabber to adjust the tongue, fail, get frustrated and break your hip restrictions by reaching down and grabbing the tongue with the tips of your fingers because you barely have the flexion to even break your hip restrictions. Tighten the laces while you're down there.
    
15. Commend yourself on your great personal courage and restraint and embark on an exciting journey involving an elliptical machine and/or a walk to the local 7-11 to get a slurpee, since you can only enjoy them in Canada because America has still not gotten the memo that slurpees/icees/whatever should. not. be. carbonated.
    

How I Spent My Summer Vacation Pt 2.

Thank God I didn't get my hip replacement done in winter. Putting aside the whole "how do you put on long underwear without having your grabber pack its bag and quit you?" issue, having a hip replacement in the winter would mean that you'd have to do your rehab walking indoors to avoid falling on slippery sidewalks/ snow. That would mean that you'd be logging major miles in your local mall. Since it was rainy today, I got a little taste of what most people who have hip replacements must experience: I went mall walking.

New Westminster is a mall graveyard. Various malls have tried to conquer the Royal City and every one has failed. Metrotown is but a Skytrain-ride away and Vancouver is not that much further, meaning that few people choose to shop in the city. Visiting Royal City Centre is therefore a unique shopping experience. It is filled with clothing stores that seem to simultaneously cater to old people and day-shift hookers. You will therefore see gold sequinned halter tops sharing rack space with floor-length floral mu-mus. There's something for everyone, from the "retiree heading down to Miami for the winter to hook herself a rich hottie" crowd to the "You know I am filled with rage because I wear sarcastic slogans on my T-shirt" set. Velour tracksuits with jeweled pockets abound, as do sweatshirts that proclaim that it's "Party time!" in sequinned letters. If you have spent sleepless night fretting that the Bedazzler does not get the respect it deserves in the fashion industry, then Royal City Center is the place for you.

As it turns out, many other people had the same goal as me. My mom and I did laps around the mall using various elderly people as pace cars. I am finally proud to report that I passed one or two of them and I hope to soon best some of the sportier old people at physio (dignity win!). My God, though. There's nothing worse than being in a decaying mall on a Monday afternoon. There's the lady selling adult bibs and tea-cozies patterned with roosters and kittens, the owner of "Sweater Collection" (a store that apparently sells the same style of sweater in various colours and somehow has managed to stay in business without being a front for a drug operation...I think) pacing around her store pretending to be a customer, the ancient couples sitting on benches not looking at one another for hours. It's enough to make you reach for the Prozac bottle.

So even though I've complained about watching summer go by through my window, you will not catch me complaining about the heat. And so, (since I'm still keeping up the pretense of trying to be useful), this is my suggestion of the day: schedule your surgery for a time when the weather will not force you to spend hours browsing through stores that apparently sell only fairy merchandise, trying to avoid the over-eager owner intent on selling you something --anything-- so she won't go bankrupt.

The Handbike Attacks!

My biggest fear going into the surgery was inactivity (little did I know how much inactivity I was in for). For this reason, I purchased one of those cheap little pedals that you can use to work out either your arms or your legs and set up shop in the kitchen by putting the pedal on a table under a bathmat so it won't move around. I never thought I would be so happy to use a handbike.

I have a rather ambivalent history with handbikes. Two years ago, I was not allowed to play basketball because no one knew whether my crazy hip was causing nerve damage. I was therefore the only one who didn't suit up when the Fighting Illini visited Alabama for a women's tournament. And I was the only one to receive a concussion.

Frustrated by being on the sidelines, I slipped away for a little handbiking in one of the facility's many workout facilities. I had my ipod cranked up and was sweating away in the little room, sweating out my incredible frustration levels, getting the old exercise-induced endorphins flowing, totally caught up in the kick-ass fiddle of some Celtic rock, when I reached down to change the track on my Ipod. And was thrown backwards. For a moment, I thought that someone had thrown a rock at me and I looked around to see where the attack was coming from. There was a sharp pain in my forehead and blood on my fingers when I put my hand up there to test. And suddenly it occurred to me: I had not been shot or hit by any other flying projectile. I had not been bitten by an exotic Southern bug and I had not been the victim of a random attack. I had conked my stupid head on a sharp metal piece protruding out of the handbike when I bent down to change the song. With blood running down my nose, I went to sheepishly alert our poor athletic trainer Jen that I would require some assistance.

Ten minutes later, I was remarking on how painfully bright the light coming through the windows was. A few minutes after that, I was suddenly immensely tired. I have a few hazy memories of JB poking me and urging me to wake up and fighting off the urge to tell her to f*ck off because I was so incredibly, unbelievably exhausted and I had a bad headache. That's right. I was the only one player in the entire tournament to not spend a minute on the court. And I was the only one to be off for two weeks with a concussion. Because I am just that special.

Fast forward to today. Same euphoric state of hand-bike bliss, different music (The New Pornographers' "Challengers"). I reached out to again change the volume on my Ipod and felt a pain in my hand, which was quickly turning red and throbbing. It turns out that you get what you pay for. My poor little handbike was not used to my particular brand of enthusiasm and friction had caused the metal I had rested my hand against had been heated to red-hot. I had been burned by my own kinetic energy.

Still, (since I am supposed to be in the business of doling of hip replacement advice), a handbike is a cheap and effective way to get your heartrate up when you're spending months perfecting the ass-indentation in your bed. It is more fun than trying to predict just how low TLC will go in their quest for the most ridiculous reality show (their latest offering: "I'm a Hoarder!") Just make sure that you invest in a model that does not pose a significant burn risk or you, too, will be unable to fully grip the handrails as you descend the stairs because the side of your hand has been lightly seared.

Sexual Healing!

When I get that feelin,' I want...a handout of approved and non-approved sex positions complete with creepy eyeless people demonstrating how to get it on.

I am a little past the six-week point in my recovery, which means that I can safely resume sexual activity. The good news: I have spent the past six weeks on my back and am pretty much an expert in that category. The bad news: the fact that I have not ventured out of my house except to rendevous with the old men at physio suggests that the odds of me meeting that special someone are not so great. (And, given the fact that I can't shave my legs for another 6 weeks and am covered in rashes, anyone wanting to get it on with me would probably have to wear industrial-strength gloves and hire Mariah Carey's airbrushing team to give me on-the-spot touch-ups).

But luckily, if I did meet someone ready and willing to assume the position, I have a handy guide to Hip Karma Sutra, which I've kindly shared with you in case you want to add some new moves to your repetoire (or just give yourself nightmares from examining the sexy hand-drawn models on the diagrams, who do not have eyes or mouths, but do have ears, '80s hairdos and exaggerated surgical scars). This two-page handout details the ins and outs (ha ha) of how to get your freak on without winding up back in the O.R. (Because that would be awkward: "Uh...honey....You know that reverse-side-saddle-cowgirl move you were rocking awhile back there?...And how I was screaming?....")

Frankly, I'm not sure I want to have any sex that a) cannot involve bending, twisting or lifting and b) seems to require the assistance of dozens of pillows, a hospital-approved flow chart, a protractor to measure the angles and perhaps a degree in kineseology or engineering. I'm surprised this handout didn't come with a CD of Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits, some aromatherapy candles and a half pound of rosepetals, because that's what you'd need to overcome all the awkwardness of having to cross-reference your moves with what's written on a piece of paper. And so, I will look forward to September 23rd, when my hip restrictions will officially be up and I will be ready to unleash my inner slut. **Just kidding mom and dad!** Men of the Lower Mainland (or Champaign-Urbana...wherever the hell I ended up...): mark your calendars.

Things That Surprised Me Post Surgery

1. My tastebuds changed: I am a chai-latte addict. My order: tall, non-fat, no water, extra hot chai latte with an extra shot of God-I'm-Such-A-Yuppie. For the first three weeks after the surgery, however, I couldn't stomach my beloved chai lattes, nor could I tolerate anything remotely sweet. Fruit? Too sweet. Corn? Too sweet. Vegetable soup? Too sweet. Apparently my freaky cyborg hip doesn't have a sweet tooth.

2. I lost a lot of hair: I wasn't expecting this to happen because I didn't have general anesthetic. Lucky for me, my hair before surgery resembled hair children draw on stick figures and it could have done with a thinning out. Now, when I walk down the street, people will no longer think, "Hey, there goes a six-foot tall woman with crazy-person hair." Now, they'll just think, "Why is that woman walking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame?"

3. I needed a nap: Because of my pre-existing anemia and the blood loss from the surgery, I looked like a wax figurine and my "nap to activity" ratio was 1:1. Standing would make me faint. Sitting would make me faint. I felt like a Victorian lady with a too-tight corset and an opium habit.

4. I couldn't walk: Before the surgery, I was walking three miles a day, hiking and generally feeling like a health rock-star. After the surgery, my lazy hip decided to take a long, long nap. It took two weeks for me to be able to move my knee, three weeks to pick my leg up enough to walk with shoes on, four weeks for my abductors to return. I'm still working on the hip flexors, which means I have to go down stairs backwards. Apparently some of this is normal post-surgery, but with all the "they get you up and walking the day of the surgery! People skip out the door after three days" talk, I wasn't prepared for it.

5. Rashes: My skin's kind of a drama queen and I've had rashes all over since the surgery. So between the hair loss and the rashes, I'm red-hot sexy.