My Left Knee.

It hurts.

For the Spring Semester of my sophomore year at Elon College (now University), I participated in a study abroad program in London. I, and about 35 other students, lived in a run-down building about 8 blocks north of Hyde Park. I can't remember the name of the street (it was over 15 years ago), but it was near Edgware Road and a Safeway. Every week, we received a food allowance. Every Monday was a happy evening spent at our local. By Thursday, we were eating "McDonald's Ketchup Packet Soup."

One weekend, some of the girls decided to have a party in their flat. "Come on over," they said. "We're making jell-o shots. Bring some booze!"

We came. We brought booze. We had a good time. The alcohol flowed copiously. The jell-o shots were shot with gay abandon. The music started, and we danced.

Suddenly, *our* song came on: Love Shack by the B-52s. Michelle pulled me up on a chair to dance with her. We danced. My knee twisted and I fell off the chair. Quietly, I limped up the stairs to my flat.

After about an hour or so, the numbing power of alcohol worked it's magic, and I felt fine. The party was still going strong, so I went back downstairs.

"You're back," everyone said. "Let's dance."

We did. A few minutes later, I felt an intense stabbing pain in my left knee and I crumpled to the floor.

Through the haze, I remember looking up at Mark, the Brit with the stunning blue eyes, as he said, "Steven, you are fucked up."

I hobbled out of the party and up to my room, where I somehow managed to get into my bed.

When I awoke the next morning, my knee had swollen to the size of a grapefruit. Ow. I could barely bend my leg. For the next month or so, I wrapped it and limped everywhere I went.

Once back in the States, I went to my family doctor. He said everything looked fine, but I might have knee trouble when I'm older.

Well, I'm older. And my left knee hurts.