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Columnist, Sheila Moss, is humor writer from  Tennessee. She writes  a weekly human interest column about daily life and the funny things that happen to everyone.

   She has written for  the Daily News of Kingsport,   Griffin Journal, Oakridge Now, Atlanta Woman Magazine, Aberdeen Examiner, Angleton Advocate,  and Smyrna AM, a supplement of the Murfreesboro Daily News Journal. She has been published by Voyageur Press, McGraw Hill, and the good folks at Guidepost Books.  Her articles have appeared in numerous anthologies and other publications, both in print and online.

    She is a former board member and past  Editor of  the, website of  the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, the oldest and largest professional organization for columnists. She is the Web Editor of Southern
  and  a founder of the Southern Humorists writers' organization. She is writer, editor, and webmaster of

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Oh, My Aching Knees...

Oh, My Aching Knees

I showed up on time at the prearranged appointment. That was my first mistake. The gym-like setting was populated by young attractive therapists who obviously were in tip-top physical condition, while I was a broken-down old woman with a busted knee.

The doctor had decided that what I needed was some physical therapy. "Anything to help me walk better," I thought. But I didnít know what I was getting into. Looking around, I noticed that all the other patients were ancient relics. "I have died and gone to senior citizen hell," I thought.

Old people groaned and grunted as they did various exercises geared to their particular problems. Since my problem was knee related, the therapist decided I could "warm up" on an exercise bicycle. "You can ride for 10 hours," said Barbie the therapist. Okay, it was actually 10 minutes, but it seemed like 10 hours. After my knees turned to Jello and I was hanging limply to the handle bars, it was time to do the real exercises.

"These people here are all sadists," I thought. "Two sets of 10," she said, typing my progress on her portable computer, while I marched in place with my rubber knees, barely able to move. She then had me do various other exercises, oblivious to the fact that my body was there, but my mind had checked out.

I noticed that all the other old people were going through their paces with no trouble. I canít let all these pre-historic dinosaurs out-do me, I thought, as I speeded up my knee lifts. "No, do it slowly," said the therapist. "The slower the pace, the more strain on the muscles," as if I needed more strain.

"Now we will work on balance," she said. I looked around and didnít see a balance beam anywhere, so I figured I was safe. That was before she made me stand on a soft rubber cushion that caused me to shift foot to foot and side to side. "Iím going to fall off this thing and finish killing myself," I thought. "If it seems too easy, you can close your eyes." I tried to make it look as difficult as possible, which wasnít hard.

If I thought that was bad, the next item on the menu was deep knee bends. "You can hold on to the metal bar to help you balance," she said, as I planned her impending death and my knees snapped, crackled and popped like breakfast cereal.

Finally, she said, "Now for the rest of the time you will be laying down on the table." Good, if I pass out she wonít be able to tell. "Are you okay?" She asked, probably noticing my pale face and blue lips. "Yes," I lied, not wanting to admit I could not keep up with the 90-year-olds lifting weights.

The woman on the table next to me had a heating pad on her back. I could use some rest and a heating pad. "Here, squeeze this ball between your knees." That was the first of a series of exercises designed for bumping off potential Olympic athletes; then we came to the leg lifts. "You only have to lift your leg about 2 feet." Why did she save this until last when I am so tired I can barely lift my leg two inches, much less two feet?

At last I was done. Has it only been 30 minutes? Impossible. "Would you like some heat or ice?" I nodded weakly, thinking at last I would have a nice heating pad like the other lady.

Therapy Barbie came back with a cold ice bag and plopped it on my knees. After ten minutes of frost bite, I was finally able to leave so sore and exhausted I was worried about getting to my car. "I will crawl if thatís what it takes to get out of this place," I decided.

"See you Friday," she said.

Copyright 2015 Sheila Moss

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