Back in high school, I was a cheerleader.
Although, don't get me wrong...I was not a cool cheerleader, as I also did shit like this:
Apparently southwestern shirts, tye-dye bean bag chairs and wearing a Frisbee on my head was my idea of awesome.
Hypercolor! What what!
A few things: a mouth full of gum, a dollhouse in my room at 14, tapered jeans, and a Central Perk shirt a la "Friends"
And also (OMG WTF Glamour Shots?! Yes.) this:
Yes, that is seriously just some pink sparkly paper wrapped around my shoulders.
One might also argue that Nelson was actually triplets, not twins...and I was the third sibling:
Me in 1994:
But even so, my high school allowed me to remain a cheerleader, until my senior year when my "I need to be unique and abnormal so I will dye my hair purple and pink, wear glittery eye shadow and black eyeliner, and don't get me started on my bomber jacket and combat boots" phase came through at full force.
The cheerleading committee literally put rules in the rule book based on ME.
How's that for damning The Man?
Unfortunately, even if I did remain my innocent, albeit odd, self, I probably wouldn't have been able to cheer my senior year anyway. Because that year, I started having hip problems.
And during my first year of college, after stumbling around the halls like an old woman---while sober---my parents took me to the doctor during a break, where I was told I had bursitis in my hips.
Likely caused from all the jumping and splits. (Okay, I could never do the splits. I still can't. But dammit if I didn't try all those years.)
Now, many years later I would have expected that my hip issues would be the first thing I'd notice about getting older. And honestly, I'd assumed that they wouldn't even start popping back up until at least 35. Sure, I like yoga and ab workouts, but I'm not the most athletic or active human being on the planet.
But no. Over the past couple days I've noticed something completely different: my knees fucking hate me.
That's right. My bursitis-ridden hips are just fine. But my knees have decided they no longer want to function properly.
And by that I mean they no longer care to be bended. Or, more truthfully, they can tolerate bending...it's the unbending they are currently protesting.
I know I joke a lot about being "old" now that I'm 30, but honestly that's not how I feel. As a matter of fact, I actually adore this new decade.
(Even if there are moments where I'm slapped in the face by reality when cute 20 somethings walk in the door and I realize I will never be one of them again. But it quickly passes when I realize I'm now a cute 30 something. And I will kick their collective asses with my maturity, wit, and whatever else I can say I learned in my 20s, should they give me guff.)
However, my knees have not gotten the memo apparently. They ache. They creak. And when I attempt to unbend them, they cause my vocal chords to create sounds akin to those of whales in search of a mate.
And I just want to reach down, pat them lovingly, and say to them, "Listen assbags. You've got a whole HELL of a long time to keep working. So quit your bitching and bend like you were born to. And thank your pretty little caps that I stopped wearing high heels regularly 4 years ago."
Instead, I'll take the advice of a friend and treat them to ice packs and ibuprofen.
I wonder if Nelson went through the same thing.