It's officially wintertime.  Well, maybe not "officially," but definitely from the look, feel and smell of things ... it's winter.  Which means one thing in New York City:  seasonal ice skating!

I know I'm really a 78-year-old man trapped in a 28-year-old body, but the thought of ice skating is nerve-wracking!  The other day I went to an ice skating party and we all jumped on skates after one (two) drinks.  Which made things even worse!  It was as though the crowd skated in loops, while there was a different kind of loop in my head, saying, "Don't fall!  Don't break anything!  Don't fall!"

When you have arthritis, ice skating brings new meaning to the "walking on thin ice" analogy -- I was petrified of getting hurt (and looking stupid ... which, obviously, was more important at the time).  Holding a girl's hand while I skated didn't make it any easier.

But at least it made me focus on something other than getting hurt.  For 30 seconds.

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Nothing is worse than when both of your ankles swell up.  I'd rather my knees or hips or back or hands or any other joint to stop working.  The ankles, for some reason (well, I know the reason), really get to me.

This morning I woke up, and before I opened my eyes I knew that it would be a tough day.  Down at the foot of the bed were two very achy ankles.  I knew that eventually I'd suffer the consequences of playing softball with senior citizens, and this morning was the world redeeming its "I told you so."  If I hadn't hit a huge triple, threw the bat down, and ran like I was chased by the Boogie Man, I'd probably be walking today.

Instead, I am hobbling around in great agony, taking with me the feeling of sweet, sweet victory last night.

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