Legs
Judy Conlin
One is born with legs and seldom gives a thought about them. At first, you just kick them in the air. Next, you use them to roll over, eventually to creep on your knees, and finally to pull yourself up on your feet and walk. As you get older, they become very useful. You can run, jump, bicycle and skip rope. All these things happened to me pretty much on schedule.
It wasn’t until my teenage years that I became aware of them as appendages not living up to my expectations. At that time, Marilyn Monroe was the “in” gal with her beautiful curves, and I was a stick figure. My legs still carried me where I wanted to go, but they looked like two ski poles. They were not attractive at all.
In my 20s, lo and behold, I developed curves and actually had pretty legs. I landed a job modeling clothes. I was feeling good about myself. For the first time ever, even Nurse Judy, my alter ego with a superiority complex, stopped calling me a “frump.” She wasn’t ashamed of me.
This happy period didn’t last long because Twiggy now became the “it” girl, and I was completely out of fashion again. Somehow, Nurse Judy looked swell in those hot pants and short, shapeless minidresses, but as time went on, my curves had exploded into pudginess. Still, my legs were working, even if the thighs were a little thick.
As I got older, arthritis invaded both my knees, making walking a little painful, but those legs still carried me. I didn’t realize it at first, but the arthritis made my legs bow out. One day, I was walking down the street in Havana, and a person quite a distance away yelled to me.
“How could you tell that was me from such a distance?” I yelled back at her.
“I would recognize those bowlegs anywhere,” she said.
I was shocked, and when I got home, I immediately stood in front of a mirror and, sure enough, I was now bowlegged. I continued in this state for years, walking like a duck wherever I went but still getting around.
“Why don’t you get a cane?” folks would ask.
I bought six canes. They did not make me feel one bit steadier. In fact, I felt less secure, so I kept hobbling along.
Strange as it seems, I got old. When I go downtown, people rush to help me over curbs. I haven’t had to open a door, except at my own home, for years. Havana is the home of the nicest people in the world. With the help of the whole village, I was getting along.
When I reached 90, those legs had something else in store for me. They decided not to carry me over a curb. They left me lying on the pavement. Now that was humiliating, especially since I couldn’t get up. Two good Samaritans lifted me up, got me a cart, took me into the store, stuck around while I hastily made my one purchase and made sure I was safely in my car to drive home.
I was really angry at those legs now. How dare they humiliate me like that? I had refused to use a cane, protecting their image of still being able to do their job. No longer would I give them that courtesy. I ordered a pink quad cane and found it more reliable than those recalcitrant legs of mine. I don’t know if this bothered my legs or not, but it sure humiliates Nurse Judy. I don’t care much about that because she has made a fool out of me for years.
This should be the end of the story, but next I got a bug bite, which turned into cellulitis of my left leg. It finally healed up, only to be followed by sudden, severe pain in my right leg, which has swollen up like a balloon. I had a sonogram, and thankfully, it is not a blood clot. But now, even with my cute pink quad cane, I am having an even more painful, more difficult time walking even a few steps.
Needless to say, I am a bit disgusted with legs. The next set I get, I’m going to demand a lifetime guarantee.
More later,
Hopalong Judy
www.nursejudyinfo.com
