I felt like the Tin Man this morning, swiveling my pelvis and squeaking, “Oil can! Oil can!” through clenched lips, hoping to catch the attention of a passing pigtailed girl in a gingham dress, of which there are distressingly few these days.

I don’t know if I slept at a bad angle as a result of being sandbagged all night by the cats, or if all the crazy dance moves I practiced with My Darling B at our weekly lesson last night caught up with me, but all day long I had a crick in my right hip that simply would not leave me alone. Felt like hyperextended it but, if I did, I had no sensation of it when it happened. Walked away from the dance lesson a little winded but agreeably tired, as if I’d just gone on a ten-mile bike ride. It wasn’t until I climbed out of bed this morning and hobbled to the kitchen with my hip going ping ping ping all the way across the living room floor that I had any inkling I’d done some kind of damage while we were whirling through Viennese waltz and two-step turns.

I think it may have been the waltz that did me in. Couldn’t figure out at the time why I was having so much trouble keeping the rotation going on the advanced left turns, kept tripping B and never seemed to be able to finish on the correct foot. We did a lot of twirling during the two-step, too, but that probably just made worse whatever I’d already done to myself.

It only got worse the longer I sat down, which is perversely what I do for a living most of the time. Whenever I got up from my seat I had to test my leg to make sure it wouldn’t snap out from under me like a breakaway crutch. Took a long walk at lunchtime and took any excuse I could think of to get up and walk around in the office. Oh, here, let me get that print job for you. Felt much better by the end of the day. Fingers crossed, I’ll get out of bed in the morning tomorrow and my hobble with be just a bad memory.