Or, perhaps, I could write about that gloriious day months after my hip replacement surgery when I was able to get on my underpants without a Cirque de Soleil contortion routine across chairs, the bed, sometimes holding on to the top of a short wall. I developed a system and it was awkward. It was prone to failure and once in a while a fall.

So often I notice that we mortals toddle along like cartoon characters dump de dump de dump. We do the same things daily. There is a rhythm of success we don’t even notice. Our minds are restless and on the look out for the disappointments, the dropped glass pitcher moments, the flat tire on the high way, the slip with the knife while cooking.

But almost generally, we can say things work. We get from our homes to our appointments. The clothes we put into the washer come out clean. The slow cooked chicken is succulent and safely done to the bone.

If an angel rang a bell for every successfully completed task during our everyday, we would be deafened.

Every single day we experience a thousand victories which we don’t even notice.

It is only when the front door warps and the key won’t turn the lock that we realize that disaster can stop us in our tracks. How do I get in, if the key doesn’t work?  And then it is time to repair, replace, restructure, reassess. Then it comes home, the realisation of the complexity of everyday rituals.

What I noticed most about not being able to sit or walk for 15 months was that my toe nails began to look like the claws of a giant ant eater. They hooked on the sheets, caught on curtains, were painful in shoes and made getting anything other than a skirt or dress on impossible.

I had to take myself for a slow walk on the sidewalk. I had to gently begin physiotherapy. When I walked, I lurched to the left because the muscles in my right hip had weakened from two years or more of not working properly.

The surgeon slid over to me in a chair, made eye contact and popped his eyes out at me to try to explain that my expectations were child like. He was direct. But I could see myself on a unicorn riding over a rainbow to cotton candy land through his gaze.

fantasy shoes

I lurched so unpredictably that I repeatedly ran off of the narrow cement walking highway. One day I said to my neighbour, “I need a tee shirt that says,’ I am not drunk or stoned. I am just relearning to walk.’ ”

And then the glorious day 6 months after surgery, I did it. I brought my feet up toward me and I clipped my predator’s nails. An entirely new future opened for me. I could wear socks, and slide my feet into all of my shoes. I could wear long pants and successfuly push my now civilized toe nails down the tube to pop out below.

What I have known on some level, is that I have never realized how many “missions” I have completed successfully in my life. The habit of self criticism is strong. But I feel like an Olympian with a gold medal now: I can walk. I can put on my own underpants. I can clip my toe nails . Damn, it feels good.