Thursday

Over the weekend I found these ballet cards at the thrift store. They were 50 cents.

I thought Famke might like them.

At first she didn't show much interest. Jonge did.

These cards should come with a warning. One that says if you are an out of shape over weight grandmother you should just look at the pictures and sigh silently to yourself.

Because if one has not exercised in any meaningful way since, say, when the years began with 19, one should not attempt any of these simple-looking positions.

Jonge and Famke, who hop, skip and jump their way through the day, had no trouble once their feet were in the correct position.

Tonight as I stepped out of my car I realized that the top of my right leg is no longer attached to the rest of me in quite the same way as it had been for the past 51 years.

No.

Do you remember what it felt like the night you went to bed with your very first loose tooth?

That would describe how my right leg feels.

Like if I tied it to a door and then slammed it shut, my leg would be hanging from the door knob.

I'm trying to decide just how to classify this injury.

If I said I had a ballet injury NOBODY would believe me.

I'm going to stick with "grandmother injured in the line of duty".