We were there on important business, my brother and myself. The hospital, while holding its fair share of awesome wonders, does not intrigue us beyond the visiting of our mother there. Mom, however, loves hospitals. It's her version of the ultimate spa experience. She's nuttier than a Snickers bar.

She can see the parking garage exit from her window and chastised Charlie as we made our leave...chastised him for not waving goodbye the day before when he left. I was not with him then. He replied in defense, "I was trying to drive, MOM. I have a looker with me today."

Mom ducked her head to the right as her shoulder rolled forward. She looked at me shyly, coyly, from her left eye and she winked with the suggestiveness and shimmy of Betty Boop while giggling, "I'd say you do!" Charlie rolled his eyes and tried not to gag. His eyes bulged and his jaw flexed as his bobbing eyebrows translated, She's MY SISTER.

I promised to wave, and we headed toward the elevators. We got to the car and Charlie kept telling me, "Now, remember, stick your hand out and wave as soon as we leave the garage." I rolled my window all the way down and sat lopsided in my seat so that my body would hang out of the window noticeably from the sixth floor.

When the time came, I waved my heart out, my torso heaved over the side, and my peripheral vision caught Charlie waving from behind me. I was blinded by the morning sun and thus could not see what I was waving at, my face being scrunched like a rotten tomato and all. As we entered queue to leave, I ducked into the car and fastened my seat belt. "I couldn't see anything...ya think she saw us?"

"She saw a couple idiots waving, at least. She'll know it was us. She's probably all teary-eyed inside with the nurse saying, 'I know they're stupid, but they're all I've got!'"

They like to be theatrical, you see. They like to make an entrance. They creak worse than the termite-touched floor of a haunted house, ad-libbing a squeaky hinge imitation to round out the performance. They are an arthritic prophecy.

They are mine, and I love them.

My knees have long sported a sort of grinding. Being that I am in the jogging part of my fitness year, I have started to notice a post run feeling that isn't quite pain, yet isn't quite negligible either. I struggled with understanding my limitations. Knee feeling of any kind frightens me more than when Miles sneaks up on me and taps my shoulder—which, judging by my erratic heart beat, screech, and time spent airborne, could be described as pretty damned frightened...at least in some circles.

I have a soft spot for knees, such an under-appreciated joint, often slapped in mirth, who do nothing but bend to my will. They are a servant treated most unfairly and paid most inadequately. I have a set whose work environment has almost secured them beds in a rehab center for movement overdose. But...stop jogging? It will probably come to that one day.

Before anything drastic, I decided to spend a small parcel of currency on a pair of what look to be elasticized leg warmers to be worn slightly higher on the leg. A fashion statement they are not, unless the statement goes something like this: I'm a loser. I fought with my new accessories as they resisted travelling up my legs. "Boy, dis is some joint," they observed with a low, New York accented, whiskey roughened voice.

"I know they're not cool, I know they make funny sounds, but everyone has quirks," I ground out as sweat beads appeared on my forehead with popping sounds. My knobby joints were likewise repulsed, and felt slightly self conscious at the application of leg girdles. I also had to reason against a knee-jerk claustrophobia, and patted them coaxingly.

I tested the braces walking around the room. My discontented knees complained that it was their birthright to malfunction, a payback to the utterers who dare saddle them with a silent "k". Quickly growing tired of being a peacekeeper, I rolled my eyes and ignored the barbs. I'm sure the braces would have had something cute to enhance the conversation had they not been busy sucking the life out of my legs.

I found it much harder to walk in them. I felt my quadriceps working harder. I had a striking revelation: Is this how legs are supposed to move? Being a flat-footed lass, my joints are accustomed to me using them improperly. I gave them a whirl on the treadmill, and when I cleaned my machine an hour later, sweat drenched and hot, I found the absence of limp rather curious.

"Where's the not-quite-pain-not-quite-negligible feeling?!" I demanded of myself. "Didn't I just run? Or did I? Am I delirious?" I had grown quite used to wobbling on my knees. I didn't wobble. I tried, but I just couldn't manage the movement. If you can't wobble on your knees, where the heck can ya wobble? "It just isn't natural," I huffed. I tried to force a limp, but it wasn't happening. Exercise...without not-quite-pain-not-quite-negligible feelings...how novel.

I rolled the stabilizers from my legs and both parties took an audibly deep breath. Warming to the absence of not-quite-pain-not-quite-negligible feelings, I hugged them and proclaimed, "If I only had a lute!" I didn't mention that I would also need lessons to play a lute. "I would serenade you with the traditional English ballad, 'Knee Sleeves'!" They purred in that gruff, macho persona of theirs.

I inspected them yesterday, after their second day of use. There were runs in the elasticized material, frilly looking scuffs on an all too masculine device. "An altercation with the Velcro on my gym bag?" I wondered, hopefully. It was either that, or an admittance that a thorough leg shaving was way past due.