Nothing is more entertaining than a good wipe-out in front of all of your friends.  Especially when you land face first in the water of a pool.

After the shock of "I actually just fell into the freaking pool trying to catch a ball" wears off -- and the hysterical laughter from the deck subsides -- a smile from embarrassment can quickly turn into a very painful grimace.  Trust me.

In the course of that little poolside trip, I did a little damage to my left knee.  I must have pivoted wrong and, in the process of tripping, I twisted my knee in a way that isn't natural and definitely not recommended.  That night, and the following five or so, I was kept awake by the pain in my knee, from every little move I'd make.  It was swollen (though kept pretty normal from all of my regular anti-inflammatories) and very tender to the touch.  I could put weight on it, but didn't want to go near it because every time I'd touch it, it hurt so much that I'd get a stomach ache.

I hate that kind of pain!  When you get nauseated from another part of your body hurting so much -- that's a sign that something is wrong and/or you are paying the price for an accident.

After about a week now, the pain is slowly subsiding and my initial self-diagnosis (partial tear ... sounds official, doesn't it?) is probably right.  I don't think there is irreversible damage because I wouldn't have been able to walk to the bathroom just now if that were the case.

My travel schedule and work these past few weeks have been so rigorous that I didn't have the luxury to go to the doctor right away (although I promised myself that if it didn't start to get better in a week that I'd have to haul my butt there).  Which, in retrospect, was a pretty dumb thing to do.  My doctor isn't a last resort -- I shouldn't have treated him that way.

And trust me, it wouldn't be the first time -- and it ain't the last -- that I came to him after doing something stupid or by accident.

This weekend, I'll admit, I was a bit hungover. Saturday night -- deemed "Margarita Night" by the gang -- went late and loud. As little Dorothy said to Toto, "We're not in Kansas anymore," -- so I said to my body: "I'm not a kid anymore."

This was (painfully) obvious in the aftermath of my more-alcohol-than-water experience.

Anyone can kick a hangover. It requires a little bit of Gatorade, lots of water and some seriously greasy food (these are the things you pick up in college...).

The problem -- as I experienced firsthand for the first time in a long time -- is that the body (especially one with arthritis) suffers as a whole. I felt as though I was beat up with a baseball bat, thrown down a flight of steps, kicked in the groin and made to sit through the entire movie Gigli -- all at once. It was horrific!

I am never going to do that to my body again. I really felt like I abused myself (though at the time it felt quite the opposite), and the consequences have become too dire. Advil helps the headache, but even two days later I still feel sore in my hips, weak in the knees and creaky in the fingers.

Has it really come to this? Is it true that margarita is Spanish for "entire week of pain"?

For the longest time I have had trouble climbing stairs. Not necessarily very obvious trouble, but here's what happens:  at any moment during a step upwards, my knee(s) will give way. With excruciating pain that blurs the world around me (temporarily) and renders me either on all fours or biting my tongue. Or both. For some reason it happens most frequently when I'm a) in a rush b) getting off a subway and c) all of the above. So irritating!

The most annoying part of this packaged gift of arthritic knees is how unpredictable they can be. Literally at any given moment whilst walking up stairs, "it" can hit. Not always. Sometimes not ever. But when I least expect it I am made (painfully) aware that this is the case.

So this morning, as I went upstairs from the subway, I looked up at a towering set of stairs (someone asked "where do these stairs go?" and I had the chance to say "they go up") I quietly reminded myself to take it easy and gently make my way onward.

I just wasn't in the mood to land chin-first into the stairs.

So yeah, I'm an idiot for actually going to a shopping mall on Black Friday. Which should be renamed Crack Friday. The crowds weren't as bad as the distances I had to walk -- and shlep -- to get from one end to another. Granted, I was at a shopping mall in New Jersey (the shopping Mecca of North America), and to capitalize on Macy's great bargains I opted to park and walk. And walk. And walk.

Which didn't bother me that much until the end of the day, when every step felt like a giant leap into the arms of a 300-pound linebacker. Needless to say, no $5 coupon was worth the aggravation, agony and aches caused by Crack Friday.

Sadly, I let this dampen my weekend, after such a nice Thanksgiving (with such a nice family). But instead of focusing on the nonsense that is walking 3 miles in a crowded mall with a heavy shopping bag (of bedding, no less), I need to focus on the positives:  I got cheap bedding.

I must admit, nothing makes me feel dumber, more inadequate and like more of a loser than marathon day. Every year, the New York City Marathon (sponsored by a company which, surprisingly, is still around) runs right by my apartment. And every year, I wander downstairs to watch a bunch of people run (and for the truly courageous, cycle) past. Followed by a whole lot of NYC cops on their little scooters.

What I have in common with the NYPD is my total inability to even think about running a marathon. And instead, I ate a bagel, drank some coffee, and watched some skinny guys zip by -- the same guys who went on to win the whole shmebang. So that was cool, but not in the sense that I was as far as I could be, despite being mere feet away, from ever competing.

But one benefit to a sport which endlessly tortures your joints and has proven ill long-term effects, is that it motivated me to go to the gym, do some low impact cardio, and not feel too badly for living with arthritis. Because while it keeps me from doing stuff out there -- marathon kind of stuff -- I'm better off as a result. Plus I look kind of stupid in spandex.