Did You Say SHORTS? A Guest Post for Jamie Wright

I had a fun thing happen! On a whim, I left a comment at TheVeryWorstMissionary.com when Jamie offered a giveaway of three guest post opps. And I WON! Begin fear and trembling. What in the name of heaven does an old lady have to say to such a young, hip crowd as those who read this woman’s amazing words? She was encouraging and I stewed and prayed for about four days, and then, this came pouring out. You can start here and then follow me on over to her place to read the rest . . . Getting old is ripe with indignities. Go ahead, ask me how I know. I watch my 93-year-old mom take daily steps further into the haze of dementia, and I fear for the future. And then I realize — the future is here. Yowza.

In four months, I will be 70 years old. 7-0. I remember struggling a bit with 35, taking a deep breath at 40, sort of reveling in 50 and feeling resolute about 60. But 70? The word that comes to mind is sobering. Also? More than a little bit humiliating.

Case in point. About a year ago, I injured my left foot while taking a morning walk — on vacation, no less. That led to a couple of months of physical therapy, which led to a different injury, same foot, which led to three months of tests, boots, ice packs, and assorted piles of pillows.

Ultimately, a new set of x-rays revealed a congenitally crooked heel bone, which had likely led to the two tendon insults in the first place, one of which proved to be a nearly irreparable tear.

And that meant surgery — to break and reset (with two titanium screws) that gnarly bone problem and to clean-up and re-connect the bashed tendon.  Which meant, NO weight-bearing for a minimum of two months.

And? Ta-da. MORE physical therapy.

I am happy to report that I am now walking, in two shoes, and trying to re-learn how to move this elderly ankle of mine. And just last week, I was invited to try out a brand, spankin’ new, space-age treadmill called the Super G.

What they did not tell me is that to use this machine, I had to wriggle myself into a pair of strangely shaped walking shorts made of neoprene. Listen to me now — I have not worn shorts of any kind in over twenty years. Twenty years.

Even when I was younger, stronger, and more shapely, getting into this particular pair of shorts would have been a good trick. Now? Holy Toledo, it is . . . well, humiliating.

In a good way, of course. Yeah, that is pretty much the oxymoron of the century, I know. But what this strange, gravity-defying machine is teaching me is that sometimes humiliation can be a very good thing.

Come on over to Jamie’s good place and encourage the old lady, okay?