DOA: Autopsy of My Knees

My knees is dead. So are yours!

It's time we file the class action lawsuit we all deserve: 2000s Club Trauma!!

Let’s get one thing straight: back in 1999, I wasn't just cute. I was that THANG. If you walked into the club and didn't lose your breath admiring me, this face card, my outfit or this ass... you're the problem. I was carrying the weight of a whole generation's sex appeal on a size-ten frame and a pair of platform pair of Manolos.

So, believe me when I tell you that letting go of my prime is dragging me through the emotional mud!

Every time these young girls get on TikTok or crowd the floor at a day party—dropping it low, popping it like a fresh can of Sprite, vibrating at frequencies that defy the laws of physics—they cute and all... but they just ain't doing it right. A part of me toys with the thought: “Girl, go on over there and show them how the originators did it!”

My brain is a chronic liar.

I'm from the classical era of "the twerk". Classier than the Luke era, but not as spineless as these young girls wearing panties to the club. Yet the reality is, I don't even have a choice anymore. It’s not even that I’m graciously passing the torch to the youth. Oh no. The torch was violently ripped from my hands by Father Time, joint inflammation, and a complete historical lack of OSHA regulations in the 2000s club scene. And quite frankly, I know exactly who to blame for this.

I blame "Pop, Lock, and Drop It" by Huey—or whatever his name was. I blame Crime Mob for looking us dead in our faces and telling us we had to rock stiletto pumps in the club.

WHAT THE HELL DID THEY EXPECT TO HAPPEN TO MY KNEES?!

Forcing my meniscus—or whatever that sad little tendon is holding the front of my knee together—to defy the pull of gravity in strict rhythm to the beat of 2000s club anthems. I mean, good grief. We had Crime Mob telling us to Knuck If You Buck, DJ Unk screaming at us to Walk It Out, while we were out here trying to Whistle While You Twerk, Shake That Monkey, and say I Yi Yi... all while aggressively balancing this 165-pound grown-woman frame on a literal pinpoint heel.

Where is the class action suit?! My personal injury lawyer needs to be running me that check like yesterday.

I honestly don’t even know when I became so fixated on the mechanics of a twerk. Let's be real—you don’t look holy or angelic doing it. It’s gritty. It’s undignified. But there was something about the sheer power of tucking this undeniable, aging-like-fine-wine face card below my knees and putting my entire backside to the heavens that felt like an extreme sport I just had to conquer.

Those were the golden days of the good knees, right before we ruined them for a 3-minute hip-hop track.

Back then, my joints didn't hold grudges. Now? At 45 years old, I negotiate with my lower extremities every single morning just to get out of bed. I actively avoid bending these knees too much because a deep squat is no longer a dance move—it is a federal structural emergency. One wrong bounce and I won't just hit the floor, I’ll throw off my entire equilibrium and end up doing a tragic, involuntary impression of a turtle stuck on its shell.

So now, look at me. My jam comes on the radio—let’s say some classic Beyoncé or a little 2000s crunk, maybe a little Headsprung by LL ... and I'm automatically taken back, the bass hits and my spirit takes over.

My upper body? Still got it. Ayeeeeee!! Here come the shoulders and the "get it" face... all attitude!! Rolling my shoulders and snapping my fingers with the effortless swagger of a woman who still owns a velour tracksuit.

Yet, it's still a guarantee that I'm sitting down! From the waist down?!? Honey, its either that or it is a very cautious, conservative SWAY of the hips! Feet, shoulder-width apart! A side-to-side shuffle that says, "I acknowledge the bassline, but I respect my physical therapy schedule..." in my BIRKENSTOCKS!! We don't have time to fall out in the club! Let the young girls have the twerk. And I say it with immense grace, deep peace, and profound gratitude. Because if gravity and my left meniscus had any say in the matter, trying to join them would land me straight in the orthopedic ward wearing a hospital gown with my dignity in a trash bag.

Listen, to every single sister in the 40-and-up coalition: I see y’all. We are all out here suffering in solidarity, silently adjusting our posture, wearing sensible supportive shoes to brunch, and rubbing Biofreeze on our joints while waiting for a line dance to come on.

We are pivoting to generational wealth. Let's secure that bag... cause they going to need it in about 15 more years!