I wore a cast for four weeks. I’m going on my third week of wearing a boot that replaced the cast, a boot that probably weighs three pounds (25 pounds when I’m tired). My left foot hasn’t born any weight for weeks. I’ve only taken two showers in the past month-and-a-half, and though the doctor gave me permission, he wasn’t happy about it. He is worried about infection. Six weeks of sponge baths. I haven’t been able to wear a normal pair of pants the entire time. I’m living in a pair of wide-legged yoga pants, not because I’m doing yoga, but because they are the only thing I can get over the boot.

For the most part, I’ve been patient and flexible (well, Bill might argue that point a bit), and as dignified as one can be when one hasn’t showered or worn normal clothes for six weeks. But yesterday afternoon, I hit rock bottom.

It was Valentine’s Day, and I had asked Bill what I could make him for our Valentine’s dinner. Bless his little heart, he chose my Mom’s meatloaf. (Well, since my mom died in 1995, I guess he thinks it’s my meatloaf.) I was happy to comply, but I had none of the ingredients. I went to our neighborhood Basha’s to buy ground beef, potatoes, green beans and the necessary herbs and spices (that sounds very fancy when it’s just a package of Lipton onion soup mix). I was rounding the corner to the meat department when I happened to glance down at the ground. Here’s what I saw…..

Yes, Friends. I had hit rock bottom. I had gone to the grocery store wearing my slipper. For years, I have worn nothing but LL Bean moccasins, and honestly, that wouldn’t have been so bad. But to cheer myself up from looking so dreadful, I decided to buy a pair of baby blue chenille slip-on bedroom slippers with fuzzy white trim, and a perky little button. Really, they scream WE ARE COMFORTABLE BEDROOM SLIPPERS. They also scream YOU ARE REALLY A VERY CRAZY WOMAN.

I considered abandoning my cart and clumping out as quickly as my Frankenstein’s monster’s boot would let me go back to my car. But I was already THERE. And I needed some groceries to make Bill’s meatloaf dinner. So I swallowed hard and tried to pretend I was at Walmart where I might actually have looked fancy because the faux fur looked a bit dressy.

I was completely and profoundly mortified. The only thing I could think to do was to start limping even more than necessary, thinking that perhaps people would presume I was so disabled that I couldn’t fit a normal shoe onto my foot.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Aging is a very humbling experience. One good thing is that, having reached rock bottom, there is only one way to go!