Getting Old

Yesterday was not a good day. Well it was in the sense that Harleigh and I went to dinner together and walked around the Forum, where I bought a darling Madras plaid patchwork pocketbook and a crisp, white linen blouse. I very rarely buy anything for me, so that was a treat.

Not good — Part I: Got in the shower this morning and slipped on soap. Well, more than slipped. I fell. Big time. Naked body parts going everywhere. Both hands grasping for something to keep me on two feet. As I was falling, I wound up semi-sitting on the shower curtain in a maneuver that could have easily pulled the whole rod and curtain down on me, but instead just sort of cradled me in a wet hammock of plastic. While trying to right myself from this awkward lean, my left hand was grabbing for the over-the-shower-head caddy, which, from my sheer weight, bent forward, spilling shampoo and conditioner bottles everywhere creating quite a racket. (Thank God I didn’t pull the whole shower head out of the wall.) I finally got myself into a standing position with no broken bones or bruises. And because I was OK, could laugh at what I must have looked like. The noise woke Harleigh up and she came running in to find me standing there like a wet dog, still naked, attempting to twist the shower caddy back into its original shape.

Not good — Part II: As Gideon and I were heading back into the house after his last potty trip of the evening, he accidentally ran into me. I was on the patio ready to open the door and he came running, hitting me in the back of the knees. The force of the hit literally lifted me off of the ground, almost into a horizontal position (very cartoon-like I might add), and crashed me down onto the concrete. My one hand (I believe it was the shower caddy hand from earlier that day) broke some of the fall. But the real hero was my rather cushiony posterior. I swear I think I bounced at least two times before coming to a still position (albeit clothed this time). Again, no broken bones or bruises. Came into the house, yelled for Harleigh, and broke into tears, sobbing like a big baby. Gideon then jumped on the sofa, licking my face in apology, and the sofa inched back enough to hit a table and knock one of my favorite pictures off, shattering glass everywhere. Harleigh cleaned it all up, got me calmed down, and played mother for the next half hour (which, I must say, she is really good at). My tears had nothing to do with being hurt. It had everything to do with being scared instead of annoyed or embarrassed. And that felt very elderly to me.

So there you have it. I have officially reached the age where I am afraid to fall. Afraid of breaking a hip. I am OK with the fact that I will never roller skate again (and I haven't since I was in my teens, but whatever). Will never walk across an ice patch without my life flashing before my eyes. I am contemplating showering with a bathing suit on so that I am not the funny rescue story they tell at the fire station about the big, naked lady they saved that one time from the tub fall. I will be grateful for my big butt; she took the bullet for me big time. I will purchase those gross no-slip stickers for the bottom of my bathtub. I will forgive my dog. I will thank God that in both instances I was not hurt. And now that I think about it, I’m grateful that both times I didn’t lose bladder control. That’s me . . . always finding the positive.

[Photo courtesy of Lance A. Rothstein]