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!
3 thoughts on “Only One Way To Go”
Getting old is not for wimps.
It’s all up from here.
Some of my grands say slippers are shoes and can be worn in public. To MY knowledge, they do not wear pajama bottoms to stores which I see all the time. Maybe you are really young.
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