For years, I watched hemlines go up and down and more or less tried to keep up with the trend, despite my belief that fashion designers were out to get me to replace my wardrobe every season.
Recently, however, I have become less concerned with where my skirts end than I am about the knees they cover. Let's just say that I no longer take my knees for granted. I used to run, play tennis, and hike. That is until my knees started to hurt. In my late fifties, I had two arthroscopies to clean up torn cartilage, and substituted aerobic walking for tennis and running. Occasional short-term physical therapy kept me going until fourteen months ago when the situation had deteriorated enough that my orthopedist recommended a knee replacement.
Next week my new knee will be one year old. I've pretty much forgotten the brutal rehabilitation and the swelling that kept me in sweatpants for two weeks. I no longer hate the physical therapist and the woman who came to take my blood. I do take pride in a speedy recovery that allowed me to bike to work five weeks after surgery, much to everyone's surprise and my glee.
But it is only now, one year later that my new knee is down to the size of my old one. And although I hear a click with each step and am subjected to a body search every time I fly, I am grateful for the surgery.
I don't pay much attention to hemlines these days. My closet is full of pants.