“I’m fine, and my hips are fine. My false knee is fine. My false hips are fine. Everything’s cooking.”
- Liza Minnelli
Why the title of this post, you’re wondering? Because I think my hips are a metaphor for my life, albeit in a rather awkward and roundabout way. My hips tell me a lot about how I’m doing…
This week was not so good in the health department. I’ve been exhausted and in pain. But the main thing is that my hips have been giving me a lot of trouble. And they seem to be one of the first things to flare up, especially when I overload my already too heavy bag and trek nearly a mile to campus.
The point is, you can carry around excess baggage until you’re blue in the face, but whether your food indulgences go straight to your hips or you’re carrying the wait of the world on your shoulders, it’s always the hips that feel the brunt of it (sad, but true, I know).
We wear masks to conceal are true feelings, and I’ve become rather adept at hiding my pain from others. Sure, there are some who see through it, but it all comes back to the hips. One friend of mine told me that she used to look over at me during class. If my legs were crossed, she knew it was a good day. If my legs weren’t crossed, she knew I was in pain. Pretty ironic, huh?
Something that surprises me is how little we really know about the people in our lives, whether it’s because they haven’t told us or we haven’t bothered to ask (or have been afraid to). But when you’re walking slowly and can’t keep up, or you’re limping, it’s pretty obvious to others that there’s something going on…
Yes, I have a love-hate relationship with my body; I hate to love my body, and my body loves to hate me. And I am trying to work through this, I really am. But yesterday morning was one of those times when I pushed myself to workout, and now I am completely regretting it.
So, maybe the saying shouldn’t be “read my lips,” but rather, read my hips. On second thought, maybe not…
At least for me right now, it seems like it’s all in the hips…
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