Remember that? It was the very first line of my very first blog post, back in December of 2022. And here is the castle at the top of that . . . well, admittedly not very tall . . . mountain. But it felt like Mount Everest, even then, when I was 32 years younger and in much, much, much better shape.

How easy things were, that summer of ‘91 when I lived and worked in Prague! I walked everywhere — from my apartment to my office; up and down endless flights of stairs; and on weekends, all around the cobblestone streets and hills of that beautiful, historic city.

I traveled a lot in those days, schlepping my heavy luggage, jamming myself into the coach seats on airplanes, running for the metro trains in London and Moscow, and onto the funicular railway in Budapest. And thought nothing of it.

*. *. *

But oh, what a difference three decades can make!

It starts slowly . . . a little twinge here, some crackling sounds there, that spontaneous grunt when you get up from your chair. Then the first realization that you can no longer touch your toes without bending your knees and your knees don’t bend so well anyway and it kind of hurts your lower back so it’s probably best not even to try. And there’s that snapping noise in your left shoulder when you try to scratch the itch on your upper back. And one day . . . Omigod! That really hurt!

So you head to your friendly orthopedist, who tells you you’ve got garden-variety osteoarthritis. Nothing to worry about; it’s very common in older folks, and it won’t kill you . . .

Wait just a second! Did you say “older folks”??!!! You could not have meant me!!

But he did. And more time passes. First it’s the back — degenerative disc disease, requiring multiple spinal fusions. Then the patellas (patellae?): they’re now bone-on-bone, and before you know it . . . bilateral total knee replacement. And eventually, rotator cuff repair, one shoulder at a time. And somewhere in there, the plague of the computer age — carpal tunnel surgery — which actually was a breeze compared to all that other stuff. And before you know it, you’ve gone from climbing mountains and schlepping luggage to this . . .

The Rollator. Only you’re not quite as straight as the second picture, because that lady obviously doesn’t have five fused lumbar vertebrae.

That’s when you also notice a not-so-subtle shift in the way people treat you. You’re no longer an equal, a fun person to be included in all their activities. Oh, they’re nice to you — sometimes too nice — rushing to open doors, asking if you’re all right, calling you “dear” instead of “honey.” And they compliment you, not on your clothes, but on your damned Rollator! “How lucky you are to have such a nice one, dear. It’s such a godsend, isn’t it?”

Yeah, sure . . . if you’re talking about the Roman god of meanness and sarcasm.

In all fairness, under the circumstances, I don’t know what I’d do without it. But I wouldn’t need the friggin’ thing if I didn’t have all this other sh*t to deal with. Like reaching stuff. I was never tall to begin with, and a certain amount of shrinkage is normal as you — oh, how I hate this word! — age. But the spinal fusions took away another couple of inches, so now I’d probably qualify to play one of the Munchkins in a remake of The Wizard of Oz, if I could learn to do the squeaky voice thing. And if it weren’t so politically incorrect.

But there’s an up-side to having such a short body: I can once more touch my toes without bending my steel-and-titanium knees. Though why I would want to, I can’t imagine, because I’m not at all sure I could straighten up again.

By the way, have you ever tried to toss a blanket across a queen-size bed with arms and shoulders that don’t work properly? It travels about three inches before falling onto the bed in a heap; then you have to make a dozen trips around the bed to straighten it out, and when it’s finally lying flat, you notice that it’s eight inches longer on one side, so that’s another few trips to get it even. By this time, of course, you’re ready to give it up and sleep on the couch with a pillow and that throw that’s just long enough to cover either your toes or your shoulders, but not both.

And the fridge. Why is everything you need in the back, usually behind that gallon jug of milk on the shelf that’s just a teensy bit too high, so once you get the jug out and plunk it down on the floor, you can’t possibly lift it back up and onto the shelf again? Oh, and the laundry machines, where you practically have to climb in head-first in order to reach that last pair of underwear? What is it with these appliance designers? Do they live in a world populated by giraffes?

Speaking of which, would someone please find out when the standard inseam on “petite” women’s pants was deemed to be 28 inches? Not funny, people!

But what is funny — and incredibly so — is the sight of me trying to climb up into my son’s big-ass truck. He has a nice, normal car too; but it’s usually parked behind the truck, so it’s easier . . . Right. Easier for him, maybe. Or maybe he just gets a kick out of seeing his little old mother trying to reach the grab handle, then figure out which foot to put up on the little step, then haul myself up . . . well, that’s when he takes pity and steps in to give me a boost. Bless his heart.

I have to admit, that whole scene is kind of hilarious. And in order to navigate these “golden years,” a sense of humor is an absolute necessity.

Right up there with a Rollator.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/14/24