The Hip Report

Feeling a little contemplative today, Nerd Herd. My cleaned-up hip is making progress, but it's slow. I'm almost off crutches, but the the only prolonged exercise I've been cleared to do is low-resistance stationary bike work. To accomplish this and simultaneously get a little outdoorsy time, I've hooked my beach cruiser to an indoor trainer and put it on my front stoop.

Initially, I felt this was pure genius, but as I peddling away furiously one afternoon recently, staring blankly into space with grim determination, a neighbor walked by and commented how I looked like someone fake-biking in an old Hollywood movie and that maybe I should get a green-screen installed behind me.

After that, a couple more neighbors walked by and commented, "What's your hurry?" My daughter then got her own bike out and peddled around me, all the while shouting "I'm beating Daddy in the race!"

At this point, I felt like an idiot, but I elected to continue. The way I see it, I'm 41-years-old and recovering from a hip injury, so if it's my prerogative to look like Miss Gulch from The Wizard of Oz, that's just fine. As of late, the only reason I both looking cool is if I want to get lucky and, frankly, getting lucky isn't physiologically possible for me right now without the assistance of some very complex rigging - and I'm not that desperate. With this in mind, looking like a boob in front of my house does me the service of further eliminating unattainable temptation.

Anyway, I don't have much else to share with you today. I'm in the middle of crafting a diatribe on the fact that my daughter's school has decided to serve Taco Bell and Domino's and it's taking up a lot of my snarky energy. Instead, here's a short article from GizMag about the anchors they used to reattach my labrum. 

Basically, they're made of a combination of biodegradable plastic and ceramic. In a year or two, they'll just become part of my hip. (And yes, this is an actual photo of my procedure. I feel very close to you all, so I was willing to expose myself.) At first, I was a little bummed because this means I won't make airport metal detectors go off. Furthermore, by definition, I won't be able to call myself a cyborg or bionic.

However, it's pretty amazing. Ten years ago, my procedure would have required an extended stay in the hospital, a pile o' steel, and a scar ugly enough to put a permanent end to my career as a Speedo model. Today, it's an out-patient procedure, three little bullet holes, some fancy plastic, and leg that will be as super-model sexy as ever, once the swelling goes down.

Makes you want to go out and get a sports-related over-use injury every day, doesn't it?