I'm currently sat on my sofa with a fixed, rictus grin on my face. I don't cope very well with self pity so I'm operating on the principle that smiling will release some kind of happy hormones just because of the act of smiling. If that's not the case, I can at least enrol myself in a gurning competition.
The reason I'm having a full blown pity party is I've just had to be rescued by a passer by for the fourth time in a week.
The interest rates for a loan from the spoon bank are far more crippling than any loanshark could come ever dream up. I knew that when I made the decision to wear stupid, stupid, oh so pretty, stupid, stupid shoes. I knew that when I made the decision to dance. In not nearly so stupid, or so pretty but quite sensibleish really shoes. I knew it when I decided to stay out late. I knew it and I did it all anyway. It was well worth it, thinking back now puts a genuine smile on my face.
One guest at the pity party is fickle hope. When I put on the stupid shoes, the height of the heel made my hips feel better. Wearing heels changes the position of the hips and pelvis, and for me tips it all into a more comfortable position. Unfortunately wearing heels also translates the most unstable part of my body from my hips to my knees without removing the instability from my hips. Or anywhere else. I was very fortunate that the stupid shoe wearing event coincided with the part of my menstrual cycle when I'm at my least spandy bandy. It's less fortunate that the after effects of all the stupid shoe wearing, stupid dancing, coincide perfectly with my most bendy part of the month.
The self pity, all time pity party guest of honour, is the nagging voice of pain, whispering in my ear, a knowledge I don't want to hear. That my joints have slowly but surely been worsening for months.