ad knees run in my family, although the tendency to wear platform heels and fall in them is a flourish all my own. Over the years, my knees have taken more bad hits than Marion Barry. My knees are scuffed and scarred, bruised and battered. If I walk more than 30 minutes, they ache. If I walk for a few hours, they start trembling. And during a brief flirtation with kickboxing, they staged a full-scale protest, shutting down altogether.

All of this led me, this afternoon, to see an orthopedist. This involved X-Rays, which I like to think of less as a “medical formality” than as a “fashion photo shoot,” although with a great deal of clunking and whirring noises and damnably little blow.

“Turn to the left,” said my technician, who smelled vaguely of B.O. “Bend your knee a bit. Yes, like that. Perrrrfect!”

Getting my picture taken makes me self-conscious and squeamish. I have discovered, however, that I quite enjoy having my knees photographed. (Or blasted with radiation. Whatever.) When the doctor finally pulled the X-Rays up on his computer screen, he remarked, “These look terrific!”

I had to agree: Fine white bones with a beautiful, curvilinear shape even my persistent clumsiness couldn’t bungle. It turns out my condition is rather prosaic, patellofemoral syndrome, which requires not surgery (yea!) but physical therapy and a modicum of drunkenly falling down the stairs. I should be better within months. Actually, I’m feeling better already. I don’t know about the bee’s knees, but mine sure are lookers.