"Hump? What Hump?"

Those are the immortal words of Marty Feldman as Igor in Mel Brooks' "Young Frankenstein". For way too long I have refused to even recognize the possibility that I could have one. A hump. Often called— rather insensitively— a widow's hump or (only slightly better) a dowager's hump.

I'm not fat. My mother didn't have one (although she had other issues I'm thankful not to as yet inherited). For years I took a bone-building drug called "Fossamax"— until its effect was determined to be somewhere between useless and dangerous. I would think if I could remember to stand up straight the hump would disappear. That thought has now vanished. As Nora Ephron felt bad about her neck, I feel bad about my hump.

Of course it's osteoporosis of some degree. The image below is less frightful than others I uncovered. If not inevitable, it would seem to be very common. And I do so hate being common (something the Dowager Lady Violet would most certainly say). Avec le hump clothes fit differently. I look shorter and squatter and no longer have a swan-like neck. I'm more like a tortoise.

So here's how I make lemonade out of this lemon: I'm happy to have lived long enough to have developed a hump. And I didn't have to become a widow to get one. Then there's always Hump Day. A very small glass of lemonade indeed.