Day Eighteen in Oz

So, Ladies and Gentlemen, I got what I asked for. I asked for feedback and I go it. In fact, from all the positive replies I have received from my last post (particularly on Adrian), I have spiraled down into a writer's block. I have stories and a ton of inspiration all around me but I can't seem to put it down in words. What do you guys want to read about? What do you want to know?

I could tell you about my recent adventures with my fellow "misfit" friends (as we have now sort of adopted the title) or about my upcoming trip to Sydney to spend a weekend following Belle and Sebastian around, but I think, instead, I'll indulge in something a little less exciting and a little less scandalous: my hip.

Not the kind of 'hip' that makes you cool-- otherwise I would have written, "my hipness." And then I definitely wouldn't be cool. I'm talking about the middle region of your body that helps you twist, walk, run, dance etc...

When you think about it, it's a pretty major function of the body. But I only seem to discover or, at least, appreciate the essentialness of things only after I have lost its benefits or, sometimes, the whole thing together. I am sure that is how most of us are but I am also pretty sure that when others lose something, they often aren't lying face down wondering how many days it will take for someone to discover their corpse. Enter me on Wednesday night.

I had this somewhat exciting plan about going out into town (which means going to the clubzzz). I wasn't particularly interested in clubbing but I had yet to discover downtown Newcastle and I was looking forward to possibly wandering around a little bit. I actually did my hair (which is a feat since my blowdryer is softly dying in my suitcase due to the fact that it would explode into a million pieces if I plugged it in an Australian outlet) and I got ready to be out on the town.

I met up with some friends from my college. Stuck around casually for a drink before heading over to another college to see a fellow Saskatoonite... Saskatoonian... ? ... whatever, friend. I found him, chatted and was anticipating the bus into town when something in my head went off. It was the warning I have been giving myself whenever I feel an attack of old age strike. I knew I had to make my exit quick and it wasn't hard because my "Stoon friend" was already stumbling over to the bus stop before I could say, "good bye."

I tried to rush home as quick as possible. Now, consider the story of Cinderella. I myself hesitate drawing in Disney to a perfectly innocent blog but that is exactly what I felt like: a girl who had to get home before midnight in order to save her integrity.

With seconds left on the clock, I got into my room to safely live out agony. My hip went out of control.

Ever since I was little, I have been able to do the splits. Not that big of a deal, you say. What I mean to say is if flexibility ever came up as a topic of conversation, my mother would make me demonstrate ultimate flexibility by doing my extreme version of the splits. I would lie on my back and spread my legs as far out to the sides. I could actually get them to lay completely flat against the ground. Now, you try that and tell me that's not an impressive feat!

Every time I had to do this demonstration for relatives, family friends etc etc, I always felt this sense of humiliation. It was a bit pervy really and also a little bit "circus freak." At the same time, I was kind of proud of this bizarre talent. Sadly, my mother thought this would mean I would be good at gymnastics and, boy!, was she wrong. When I got one of my chubby legs stuck between the wires of a trampoline, my mother finally got the message: "Kenzie no good at sports."

... No one in my family talks like that. Nevermind...

Now, sixteen years later, I suffer the consequences of my body tricks. My hip clicks when I walk and, sometimes, like on Wednesday night, it goes into a fit of pain so badly that I'm crippled. I can barely walk or lie down comfortably. I contort my body into different positions to see if any pain is relieved. I often get stuck into a ball, yelping and/or psyching myself up to quickly untwine my limbs before the pain strikes. Except pain strikes fast and it always wins.

On Wednesday night, I was moaning and whimpering so badly, I am sure my Korean neighbour was alarmed (to what he had in mind, I do not know). Since our rooms are like dorm rooms, the walls are thin enough to hear loud conversation or music. (As a side note, last night I heard him playing "Love Shack" at 1:30am).

Anyway, at one point I had my face against the floor, my lower half on my bed and I wondered how long it would take everyone to know that I was dead. Paralyzed by pain. Starved to death. And all because I can do the splits...

(20 minutes later)

I crawled to the bathroom, struggled into an upright position by clutching the toilet and then the sink, and was finally able to reach the medicine cabinet for some Advil.

Advil, folks, is a girl's best friend. Its only purpose is to relieve pain. It will not backstab you like alcohol or people and it tastes better than tylenol. Sadly, however, it does not keep away pain permanently.

I'm waiting for another hip attack (there is always another one ready to strike) but I have decided to take action. I have an ankle that has been swollen since Hallowe'en, a jaw that clicks and locks and a hip that's out to kill me but I have a Doctor mom and the will power to survive. Indeed, I may be across the world but I still emailed my mom for advice. She's given me some exercises to do, so I am hoping that it will help. The last thing I want is to be ruined by my hip while in one of the most beautiful countries in the world.

I'm guessing it won't be a deadly spider or jelly fish that's going to kill me but my own body. Go figure.

'Til next time (if there is a next time),

Kenzie