I am eating a five dollar grapefruit this morning.

Let’s face it. Every mirror glares the truth back at me; I am a vague mushroom color. Winter has taken ahold and wrung moisture from every pore. I believe that is why I crave the tart-sugar juice of a red grapefruit. Both the vitamins and the extreme pleasure of eating this object of beauty puts color in my cheeks. Full disclosure, I also crave Gin martinis in January, tall and clear-headed in elegantly stemmed v-shaped glasses, the three olives sunk deep in a neatly angled line. That pleasure would be twenty dollars on my favorite bar stool. So I look at a monstrously priced grapefruit that drips down my chin, eaten at the sink with a sharp-tipped spoon, as a healthy bargain for January.

What I did not bargain for was my upcoming commitment to healthy, happening next week: a PRP procedure that needles my plasma into my torn tendon and hamstring, all balled up and sitting on my sciatic, a casualty of either before, during or after the hip was replaced 18 months ago. I have dragged myself kicking and screaming to this, the urge to wait just a little while longer, the pain isn’t THAT bad, who needs to do half moon on both sides?

But everything is an investment now: citrus, elective procedures, shimmery martinis. I am taking care of self, not putting it off. I want the end line to look like a twenty-mile hike in Provence and a roll in the lavender. I want the last meals to have three martinis. I want to pluck the ruby fruit from the tree.

So wish me luck. I face a twelve-week protocol of strict behavior to grow back tissue, rehabilitate the stiff thigh and, eventually, add jumping jacks back into my repetoire so I can yet again defy statistics.

Carrie Bradshaw’s only goal post-hip was to wear heels again. I am a little more complicated, and proud of it.

See you on the trails. Clink.

A.