TV ads don’t help on the new adventure.
Molly Dugger Brennan
Another year, another year older. I don’t know about this whole aging thing. What I mean is that I really don’t know how I’m supposed to age. I’m new at this, never been this age before, and I am out here winging it.
I know how my grandparents looked at my age but they lived a different life, circa The Waltons, so I’m not certain the comparison is valid even considering our shared genetics. Oh sure, there are books on the subject but they’re no help when I roll over at 3:00 a.m. and jolt awake from leg pain.
Didn’t I just see a commercial about some guy on a plane whose leg hurt and now he’s on fancy-shmancy prescription meds to keep him from keeling over dead? Is this a deep vein thrombosis that will kill me? Is my time up? Or is it just a charley horse from the mastiff using my knee as a pillow? Place your bets, am I about to die? Odds are running 50/50 according to bedtime bookies, though if you’d seen my dog you’d know pooch pillow pain is the smarter bet.
By the way, I think it’s a bad idea to let prescription drug companies air commercials aimed at the general public. I grew up in a time where if you did not have a bone visibly protruding from one of your appendages, you were told to rub some dirt on it and walk it off. I knew very few grown men that had all 10 fingers, being from a farming community. Maybe it’s gotten safer, but farming was not for the faint of heart when I was a young ‘un. If your pinkie finger could not be put in a jar all by its lonesome, you were not working hard enough.
Now, watching TV commercials convinces me I suffer from the dreaded restless eyebrow syndrome and will become a pariah in my community unless I beg my doctor for a brand new miracle drug which may or may not be covered by my insurance and causes enough side effects to take up three full pages in a magazine, even when printed in a font size too small for these eyes to read. Oh no, is not being able to read fine print a symptom of restless eyebrow syndrome? Argh, it’s too late for me, save yourself.
My husband bought me an iWatch thingy for Christmas because my doctor said I had to walk more. This technological wonder keeps track of my steps, my heart rate, my appointments, my phone calls and the time in Tokyo. Occasionally, it will flash a red heart and tell me my skyrocketing pulse rate. It’s like it’s saying, “Girl, you’d better sit your butt down and turn off the news. Maybe have a cup of tea and think calming thoughts. Puppies. Kittens. Stuff like that.”
You’ve heard that old adage about true love? The couple that Ben-Gays together, stays together.
At least once a month now I have a “twinge or tumor?” moment. Is that new pain because I did a lot of laundry yesterday or is it a warning sign for something more sinister? Also, why doesn’t pain show up where the problem actually resides? My leg hurt and turns out my back was damaged, but my back did not hurt. Either my back sub-contracted out the pain work, or it’s running a covert operation. Sneaky. I for one do not enjoy playing pain peek-a-boo.
Are they making floors harder than they used to? I used to work flower shows in huge convention halls and stand on concrete for 12 hours a day, nine days straight. Paramedics would have to wheel me out on Day One if I tried that now. My shoe size is an 8, but I have not bought an 8 in years. I have to buy a 9 so it will accommodate the multiple insoles I jam into it.
In this house we judge my weeks by the Limp-O-Meter. How early in my work week do I start limping? How pronounced is the limp? Do I look like Festus on “Gunsmoke”? If I win the lottery, I guarantee that the first thing I will splurge on is a single-level house. Don’t care about cars, jewelry, or vacations. Give me a home without stairs and I’m good.
And what’s with the mystery bruises? I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror while getting dressed and lawsy, there’s a bruise on my hip the size of a fist. I do not remember anything happening that could have caused it. Y’all, I think ghosts are punching me.
I’ve never been one to dress like my spouse, but we finally have something matching. We have his-and-hers orthopedic boots. Is that romantic or what? You’ve heard that old adage about true love, haven’t you? The couple that Ben-Gays together, stays together.
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The story above appears in our Jan./Feb. 2019 issue. For more like it, subscribe today or log in to the digital edition with your active digital subscription.