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 Columnists.com, website of the National Society of Newspaper
oldest and largest professional organization
for columnists. She is the Web Editor of
Humorists.com and a founder of the Southern Humorists writers'
organization. She is writer, editor, and webmaster of HumorColumnist.com.
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Online Since 1999
||Oh, My Aching Knees...
Oh, My Aching Knees
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
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
"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
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
Nashville, TN 37219
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