Mornings are the most terrible. The twenty feet between my bed and the bathroom presents a challenge as daunting as Everest. It takes long, drawn-out minutes and thousands of faltering, timid footsteps to cross that vast, grueling expanse safely. I lurch and clutch and yip every stinking millimeter of the way. Admiral Peary I’m not.
But, come to think of it, a grappling hook and a winch might work. I could pull myself to the bathroom in half the time it takes to hobble. The biggest danger I’d face is rug burn, but that’s nothing. Rug burn isn’t incapacitating or fatal like falling into the toilet, knocking myself unconscious, and drowning would be. Seems like the kind of thing I’d do, though.
The moments I live for are 9 in the morning and 9 at night, when I knock back the Aleve. Out of sheer desperation, I’ve also borrowed a cane, a deeply mortifying turn of events. Although I use it freely behind closed doors, I’m embarrassed to be seen publicly gimping along with assistance. If I’m asked what happened, I plan to say it was a biking accident. Or skydiving. Something intrepid and gutsy, anyway.
The cruelest aspect of all isn’t the pain, it’s the lost time. This is summer, you know, a wondrous, all-too-fleeting season of loveliness and I’m wasting entire days — weeks — being old. Wait, no, I’m wasting valuable time being infirm. And that really ticks me off. The balcony, my perch atop the outside world, is the only thing saving me from total despair. So if you need me, that’s where I’ll be.
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