A Letter to My Ankle, With a Post-Script for My Knee

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Dear Ankle,

I won't mince words. You started acting like a jackass in October. I know, you hate yoga. But it's supposed to be good for me. FOR US. You and I, we're on the same team. But no. You're all "Ha ha. This chubby lady is trying to get healthy, find her lost flexibility and chill the fuck out. I'll show her."

I heard your message loud and clear, buddy, so we went to the doctor and got that stupid brace with so many laces and velcro that I felt like I was putting you in bondage every morning. My birthday. Christmas. New Year's. Valentine's Day. They all came and went, and you stayed angry and inflamed. And I stayed chubby and miserable.

Well, no more, ankle. No. More.

You'll no doubt notice that we recently began rising at the ass crack of dawn to engage in physical therapy, where you're required to do stressful things. Things that make you scream in almost-but-not-quite-so-it's-not-really-hurting-you pain(ish) and that make me sweat. This temporary agony will make you stronger. I feel your resistance. I'm aware of you, getting more and more pissed off down there. And let me tell you: I WILL WIN THIS BATTLE.

So you need to settle the fuck down and hold on tight, because we're doing this thing whether you like it or not. I will have dorsiflexion again. I WILL BE ABLE TO STAND ON ONE FOOT. And you, my dear Ankle, need to get on board. Because you know as well as I do that this body hates mornings. Yet twice a week we're up when a six is still on the clock so I can fix you. A little appreciation would be nice.

Sincerely,
Me, the chubby woman you belong to who would like to exercise again so she can be less chubby.

PS: Right Knee--I appreciate your miraculous turnaround this weekend. Please continue your good work so that we might avoid any drama beyond what Ankle has provided.

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