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My arthritic right hip is the only thing that has ever caused me more pain than my ex-wife’s matrimonial lawyer. Finally, I’m almost on my way out the door for hip replacement surgery.
I've already had enough dental implants to put a periodontist’s kid through Hotchkiss and Harvard. Add those to the hip surgery and I'll have more installed replacement parts than a 1953 Chevrolet in downtown Havana.
I’m told I’ll be too doped up to write for a short while when I return home, and after that too busy learning new skills, such as how to get in and out of a bath tub without undoing the surgeon’s work, and how to put my socks on.
So for a while, blogging will have to take a back seat to physical therapy, which also involves someone coming to my apartment and forcing me to do exercises that will help me to walk, bend, twist, sit, and perform other amazing feats that I used to take for granted.
(A friend who has been through this whole routine told me he had an excellent physical therapist, and that he would be happy to recommend her. “What’s her name?” I asked him. “Mistress Pam,” he said.)
Figure I’ll be back early-to-mid-to-late August. Give or take a little.
