I cross my legs. It’s a masculine cross. A man cross. Ankle to top of knee. There is no hamstring-quad touching at all. Left or right, it makes no difference. I’ve done so for years. It’s how I sit. It’s how I relax in an upright chair. I am squirrelly by nature, and I can think of nothing in the world that can de-restlessify me as much as crossing my legs.

As some of you might know, I’ve recently had knee surgery. Acute ACL reconstruction on my right knee to be more specific. I was doing swimmingly, or, rather, kickingly. I was walking without crutches, slow dancing at social functions and even starting to lift my brace into my nirvana position, cross-legging.

Lately, though, I’ve had some complications with a knee infection. Apparently, my knee juice looked more like milk than water. Not a good thing I am told. It’s a setback. One that I can most definitely bounce back from, but a huge annoyance at the very minimum.

I might be most discouraged by the fact that I had to undergo another surgery to hose out the infection. I might be most discouraged by the fact that my recovery time may be lengthened. I might be discouraged by the putrid smelling pills I have to take every six hours. I might be discouraged by the new scars from the second surgery.

No.

I am most discouraged by the fact that I cannot cross my legs. Sure, I can cross my left leg over my right, set it gingerly on my puffy kneecap and feel somewhat at ease, but crossing one leg is like eating spaghetti for 15 weeks. Spaghetti is good. Spaghetti is not good for the 47th consecutive time – with or without a meatball.

I’ve tried faking it. I’ve tried facing my torso and left leg right and plopping my lame leg onto my left leg. There was hamstring-quad touching. It instantly grossed me out. That’s not how a Kohler does things. I’ve tried laying my leg on my roommate’s left knee while he sleeps. It’s like kissing a sister. I’ve tried rolling up towels to make a third leg, a prop leg. This was fun, but I couldn’t figure out how to attach it without making it look obscene.

Nothing has worked. So I wait.

To all of you who cross your legs. To all of you who man-cross to de-squirrelify yourself during hour-long meetings. To all of you who sit two feet away from your desk to get enough clearance to be able to ankle/knee kiss comfortably even though you have to reach obnoxiously far to use your computer keyboard. Don’t take it for granted. Cross and cross often. Make it fun. Make it a game. Encourage others. Sit for freedom. Sit for America. Sit for me. Cross that leg.

dbk