I’ve long suspected my hips were plotting against me.
Not dramatically so, but in the slow, creeping way that only becomes obvious once you realise you’re making old-person noises every time you stand up. Hours at my laptop each day don’t help, nor did the years I spent with one leg permanently crossed over the other like some sort of human pretzel. It wasn’t until a massage therapist gently informed me I was “creating imbalances in my body” - said with that diplomatic tone that really means please stop doing that immediately - that I finally clocked just how tight and grumpy my hips had become.
