For a few years past, my wife, MoMo, has jokingly informed me that she would “kick my butt” if my mood or actions didn’t improve. She is right-handed, so her good kicking leg would be her right. She made a few attempts and misses, but her form was good, and she had more power in her kick than I imagined. When she was a younger gal, she was an indoor soccer player and a darn good hippy-hippy-shake dancer before she became a senior citizen, so the know-how is still there.
I used to be quick, an artful dodger of everything that might hurt. Dodgeball in the gym, with that hard red rubber ball, errant baseballs, soccer balls, water balloons, shotgun pellets, etc. Now that my right leg has gone south, and I’m older than I should be, I’m a sitting duck waiting for the kill shot.
MoMo received a new Kryptonite, stainless steel, industrial-grade knee two weeks ago. Her surgeon, a young whippersnapper, says that in a few months, she will have the knee of a twenty-year-old and be able to dance the “bugaloo, The Pony, The Shag and the Twist,” leap low fences in a single bound, push a grocery cart at breakneck speed through H.E.B. and kick a soccer ball like a pro. She will now have the right knee of a superhero. I fear I’m a sitting duck.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 