I’ve known for several years now that I’ve got bad joints. I don’t have arthritis—yet, anyway—but I do certainly have a propensity for sprains. One joint in particular has given me a lot of grief for quite some time now: my right ankle.

It all started with a moderate sprain almost seven years ago, followed by a pretty severe sprain about a year later. I tore two ligaments (one on the front and one on the outside) and was on crutches for a couple of weeks, followed by a walking cast for a few more. The bruising went from my toes to about halfway up my shin. It was really spectacular.

But eventually it healed, and I didn’t really think much about it for the next few years. After all, I was walking quite a bit on campus, and it never seemed to bother me. I did notice, however, that my shoes were wearing down unevenly; that is, I was still favoring my right foot just a little bit, but I didn’t realize how big of a problem that was until I sprained it again this summer.

It was a pretty minor sprain, but it actually seems to have been getting worse the last few months. I’m way too young to have deteriorating joints, so I decided it was time to bust out the ankle brace again. And boy howdy, what a difference it made. I went to the mall to do some Christmas shopping, and when I came home, I was sore all the way up to my right hip—obviously I was starting to use muscles that I hadn’t used much in a while—but I didn’t hobble nearly so much.

I suppose I’d better start on some sort of physical therapy regimen so that it doesn’t keep getting worse. Meh. I guess that’s what I get for not doing it in the first place. And for inheriting my mother’s genes for crappy joints.