The Day My Leg Tried to Resign
It began, as most good cautionary tales do, with a burst of enthusiasm and a tennis racket.
I wasn’t planning to become a cautionary tale, obviously. I was planning to become slightly fitter, maybe a little more toned, and eventually that person who says, "Oh, I play socially on Sundays," as if they haven't just sweated through their soul. But instead, I woke up the next day with a leg that had entered early retirement.
Act I: The Slight Stiffness
Walking to tennis, I noticed my right leg felt—off. Not painful, not dramatic, just a bit stiff. Like it had questions about the whole plan. But I, being an adult with questionable decision-making skills and a slightly overpriced water bottle, carried on.
Tennis itself was a mixed bag. On one hand, I played. On the other hand, I played like someone whose leg was no longer returning her calls. Every lunge came with a side of regret. Every serve echoed with a quiet, ominous twinge from the back of my knee.
Act II: The Great Spiral
Post-tennis, I hobbled home, applying Voltarol like it was holy water. I googled “pain behind the knee” which, as always, was a terrible idea. I had either strained a muscle or had five minutes left to live.
Cue me, sitting on the sofa, pressing into my calf like a suspicious investigator: Is it swollen? Is that heat? Or is that just... my leg being a leg?
I rotated my ankle like it was a cursed dial. I pressed into my knee to test for “pitting” (what even is pitting?). I started speaking to it directly.
“Are you broken or just sulking?”
Act III: Braces, Penguin Walks, and the Daily Triangle
Naturally, I ordered both a knee and a calf brace, because if my leg was going to fall off, it could do it fashionably restrained. They arrived just in time for what I now call the Penguin Phase™ — when you walk around the house like a suspicious seabird, flinching at every creak of your own body.
In this phase, I reduced life to its core functions:
Poop
Pee
Weigh-in
Wine, preferably brought by one of my own children with excellent timing and minimal judgment (because otherwise, yes, I too would be freaking out — while remaining seated, obviously)
Anything outside that now-blatantly-not-a-triangle was a risk not worth taking.
Act IV: The Comeback-ish
Shockingly, the leg did not fall off. It got better. Bracing helped. Voltarol helped. Slow house laps and muttering “don’t be stupid” under my breath helped.
I’m now able to walk semi-confidently, though stairs are still treated with suspicion, and I have adopted a posture of someone who has survived something.
Moral of the Story
If your leg tries to resign, take it seriously. But also? Don’t panic. Most of the time, it’s just tired. Or dramatic. Or mildly insulted that you played tennis without warming up properly.
Whatever the reason, rest it, wrap it, and try not to spiral into a WebMD hole. Trust me. I’ve been there. The leg is fine.
Probably.