Every March Americans lose an hour if they’re compelled to switch to Daylight Saving Time. Many suffer a physical loss of sleep, making the term spring forward anything but pleasant.
My knees don’t think the prospect of springing forward is pleasant either. They think springing in any direction is a physical nightmare. Oh, they can stroll, saunter, and meander like champs, especially along a sea or lake shore. They propel me down crowded grocery store and theater aisles fast enough to avoid annoying speedy twentysomethings. They assist me as I wander in parking lots, looking for the car that must have moved itself while I was gone. They even hustle at a reasonable rate when I’m as late as Wonderland’s White Rabbit—maybe because I forgot to reset the time on my watch.
Yet these knees have issues, and they don’t keep me guessing about their feelings. They creak and groan. Sometimes they refuse to work at all when I first command they do their job. Stairs and bleachers are enemies; high curbs are street monsters. Forcing my knees to hike up a rocky, hillside path would be unnecessarily cruel. They don’t go bowling and they don’t play tennis. My attempting deep-knee bends would be unwise. Who would lift me without complaint once I was down there? Not these knees!
Springing, especially—as in leaping, jumping, bounding, or hurling—requires knees in a condition mine have lost.
I’m ecstatic that my own springtime clock adjustment doesn’t require getting on my knees. I might pray for patience, strength, and endurance while I was down there, but my knees and I would probably miss church the next day—not because I forgot to change the time on my alarm clock, but because I disregarded my physiological reality.
Make us spring forward in time if you must, O Powers That Be, but I beg you, leave my spring-challenged knees alone.
Photo credit: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=143948&picture=bare-feet-in-ocean-sand