In a few minutes I’m driving up to the City for a doctor’s appointment. I used to smirk about how well I dealt with stress, but I think my smirking days might be over. The stress is winning, and even though I haven’t started screaming and yelling and throwing things on the outside, my insides have been having hissy fits that are off the Richter scale. Added to which, my knees are in such pain that some days I laugh out loud at the shadow I cast when I walk. The Creature from the Black Lagoon walks among us. . . . . If you can picture Catherine O’Hara after she twisted her knee in “Best In Show” you might get some idea of how it’s going these days.

I should be grateful I’m still walking. And I am. I just wish I was walking without pain.

I want to be a ballerina. A figure skater. I want to be Ginger Rogers.

And then I remember that there never was a chance for any of those. Even when my knees were good, the rest of me was about as graceful as a water buffalo on roller skates.

In my mind I was gliding and grooving like Sonja Heinie or a Degas ballerina all decked in tulle, but in reality I was making Elaine look like Fonteyn. Gene Kelly would have puked up his elegant toenails at the sight.

And now it’s even worse.

In about an hour I’ll have a verdict. Cross your fingers if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve crossed mine.

I’ve been too fat to cross my legs gracefully for years. It’s not a pretty sight.

No, indeed it is not.

Got to go.