Straightening out Florida

This morning I woke up about 6, rolled onto my back, stretched, and lay there perfectly still, without a care in the world, for a full minute before I realized something was wrong.

But I am getting ahead of myself. First, you need to know that I have kind of a weird build. Get a map of the United States and look at Florida. Florida is my torso. Now beneath Florida, place a footstool. Those are my legs. I have two legs, a footstool has four, but you get the idea. If you are in my first wife's family, you have seen Uncle Michael and me at parties. Uncle Mike is 6-foot-6, and when we were standing next to each other, I was looking at his chin. When we sat side-by-side, I was looking over the top of his head. Kids asked us to do that over and over again. There are pictures.

I was (I say "was" for a reason) also canted on the footstool a little bit, like Florida is canted a bit away from the Atlantic toward Alabama. Running around through life like Florida on a footstool for more than five decades had what I like to think was a natural effect on my hip joints. They became arthritic and had to be replaced, first the left, two years ago, then the right, six weeks ago. I have already told you how Karen said I look younger now, and that is correct. Each new hip has made me feel 30 years younger. She also said something else: "You look taller."

Taller! Hearing that, for a moment, I felt like a younger Charlton Heston. It could only mean one thing. Florida was now vertical on the footstool. The old hips, trying to compensate for the height and weight of Florida, had kept me pitched toward Alabama. The new ones, freely rotating, let me stand up straight. No longer would I go through life stepping into my own shade. Ye gods, 60 years younger and a quarter-inch taller!

A problem remained. The joints were free, but tendons and muscle wanted to stay at the old length. They hurt. Enter Nataly Pluta, the best physical therapist on the planet and possibly the most beautiful, and I can say that because she and Karen are best friends. Nataly's eyes are also ears. They look at a body, and the body speaks to them. The first time Nataly looked at me three years ago, my body said to her: "Florida on a footstool." She did not laugh, at least until I had gone. But the body tells her other things. Specific joints, ligaments and muscles say to Nataly, "Hurts here." "Tight here."

Ten seconds after Karen and I had showed up for my appointment, my right hip and leg had spoken to Nataly and she knew what she had to do. She put me on my back on her table and went through a few preliminary manipulations. My eyes were closed. You are supposed to relax and breathe deeply. I heard her say: "Now I want you to just hang out for a few minutes." I said, "Okay." Silence, then the touch of her fingers where the leg joins the hip. She started down the thigh, which immediately screamed at her, "No! I am a tube of toothpaste packed with concertina wire!" Of course she knew that. The fingers of death replied, "We are the Ten Sisters of the Marquesa de Sade. Breathe deeply, please." To Nataly I issued a direct threat: "I am going to blog about you." She said: "We're almost to the knee, and then we will be done."

This morning I lay there flat on my back, not a care in the world, until I realized there was no pain. The leg was straight, the concertina gone. What a right thing to be wrong.