hip hopping

In case you missed it, I had a hip replacement, which still feels like an statement belonging to someone else. A Boulder-based retired skier named Renee, perhaps. Not me, a person who, just last week, ran three miles on the soft sand in Santa Monica without stopping and felt for about five minutes extremely pleased with herself for it. But then I limped home post-run like a Civil War soldier and spent the rest of the week crying in pain at night while continuing to convince myself that maybe I simply needed hot yoga, an at-home hyperbaric chamber, etc.—anything other than accepting that my hip was, in fact, bone-on-bone.