Three Point Turn

I took drivers’ ed when I was a high school sophomore. The man who taught the class was a pervert. I didn’t know at the time that he was a pervert because I went to a Catholic school and we didn’t have sex education where you may or may not learn to spot a pervert. I simply remember that I, along with three other students, was in the car with him, and I was driving. He spotted a sign along the side of the road that said Soft Shoulders, and he looked at the sign and said to the four girls in the car, “Hey, hey, hey, sooooft shooooulders,” while leeringly looking at us.

I am thankful to tell you that he was NOT a member of my school’s faculty; instead, he was contracted to teach the class. Had I been as enlightened then as I am now, I would have tattled about him to our principal. But, see above, my 15-year-old self didn’t know that men shouldn’t say those kinds of things to teenaged girls.

At any rate, perhaps because he was too busy being a pervert, he apparently never taught me how to make the three-point turn. That fact hasn’t been too detrimental to my life. As it happens, the three-point turn is pretty instinctual. I will admit, however, that I have never used the three-point turn as often as I have in the last week while using my knee scooter in our very small AZ home.

I’m beginning to get accustomed to that little devil, relying on it to get me everywhere, including the little WC in which our toilet sits. I back up so often that it occurs to me that I could use one of those back-up alerts, though it’s true that I have run over my own foot much more often than I have run into Bill.

I can put no weight on my left foot. None whatsoever. Perhaps if I had exercised more than my crochet fingers the past six months, my right leg would happily take on the task of supporting all of my weight. As it happens, my right leg is not a bit happy to be given that task. Nor is my right hip. My feet will be perfect, but my hip pain will confine me to a wheelchair.

The biggest adjustment I have had to make is mental. Nothing happens quickly. If I forget my coffee cup in the kitchen, I have to use my foot to drag the scooter close enough for me to hurdle myself onto the apparatus, do the aforementioned three-point turn, and scoot into the kitchen. I then place the coffee cup onto the counter that divides the kitchen from the living area, and do another three point turn in order to return to the living room. I back up my scooter just so, put on the brakes, and hurdled myself back into the chair. Oh no! I left my coffee cup on the counter.

And so on.

As I suspected, the scooter is becoming more familiar to me, and therefore easier to use. Jen’s grands Austin and Lilly came for a visit last week, and they couldn’t even begin to imagine why I didn’t think the scooter was anything but fun. Austin took to racing around the house, in the exact way that Bill did the first day I had the scooter. Bill, however, crashed and burned while Austin raced it perfectly. That proves my theory that men never grow up, they only grow old.

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