Wednesday, May 30, 2012
I had to be hauled off the plane on Friday in a wheelchair. The cheerful little sadist in the purple leotard who worked me over at physical therapy yesterday morning tells me I have an irritated bursa.
(I have deliberately not Googled for "irritated bursa." I prefer the mental vision of a furry little Maurice Sendak-like monster rising up out of a bog and yawping at me).
Himself is peeved. We are going to be in Pennsylvania in August for Air Force Nephew #2's wedding (he's going to be there for the wedding, I'm going to be there for Gettysburg) and he's afraid I won't be able to maintain the regulation 30-inch stride while I'm hiking around the Poconos after him.