I turned 53, back in October — a somewhat ignominious number I didn’t really know what to do with.
The big one was obviously 50, but after that, it all gets a bit vague. Regardless, here in my fifty-third year, I have started to notice certain crucial things. First and foremost is my vision. Where before I kept a pair of “readers” handy in the event I needed to study items on a menu, I now practically need them to see just about anything, suggesting that it’s high time to graduate out of mere “readers” and go see a goddamn optometrist for a proper eye exam and a genuinely effective pair of glasses.
Second is the laundry list of things I should have taken care of about three years ago — various medical tests, and whatnot, that one is supposed to tackle when one crosses the rubicon of a certain age — that I haven’t yet fit into my schedule. I was indeed on the path to taking care of some of those things until the pandemic turned everything upside down. Various appointments were cancelled that, as yet, have not been rescheduled.
Third has been the effects of the pandemic itself. I don’t mean the daily stress, inconvenience and alleged “freedom”-impairment of having to wear masks and maintain social distance whilst walking amongst the potentially infected, but rather the comparatively insouciant attitude towards eating and drinking that has become inherent during the COVID crisis. Where once mindfulness may have been the order the day, the coronavirus ushered in a new era of indifference towards such po-faced propriety. That was certainly fun for a while, but inevitably it comes with a price.
That price is, of course, weight gain. I haven’t stepped on a scale in the last ten months, but I’m reasonably certain I don’t need that apparatus to credibly deduce that I’ve put on a few pounds since March.
I’m fully aware of all these things, and do have at least a loose plan to remedy them, but I was abruptly served with another reminder of my advancing age, this week, that has left me literally wincing.
On Saturday night, we made a plan to get together with a pair of my wife’s sisters and their families for a de facto holiday celebration. Trying to be as responsible as possible, we all met a local favorite restaurant and sat in the frigid outdoors, largely masked and duly distanced. Under the glow of a couple of frankly middling heat lamps and buoyed by the Dutch courage (or, in this case, Greek) of a few Mythos beers, we made the most of it, but — after a while — the unrelenting chill of the mid-December climate rendered itself impossible to ignore. Halfway into a genuinely compelling true-crime anecdote unspooled by my brother-in-law John, I suddenly started feeling my extremities going numb. Game as we all were to support the restaurant and spend at least a modicum of the holiday time together we otherwise normally would have, it simply got just too fucking cold. We all paid up, waved goodbye to each other and all went home.
By the time we walked in the door, I was feeling cold, congested and miserable. I tried to fight the good fight for a bit on the couch with (another) beer, but after a moment, suggested that I should probably take a shower to warm up and then go to bed. I then dubiously decided I would take a bath, instead. As if on cue, my wife asked “will you even fit in our bathtub?” This was less a remark about my encroaching girth or freakish height and more about the diminutive size of our apartment’s facilities. I waved her off and adjourned to the bath.
As is so often the case, I should have listened to the wife.
Technically, I did indeed “fit” in our tub, but it was by no means comfortable, much less relaxing. After a soaking for a spell, I decided to hoist myself up and out. That’s when it happened.
In a split-second miscalculation of how slippery things were, I lost my grip and slammed my side against the unrelenting cast iron wall of the tub, giving my ribcage a massive jolt that knocked the wind out of me. When I was no longer seeing stars, I sat back up and immediately knew I’d sustained some sort of injury, but whether it was a cracked rib or simply bruised one was still uncertain. When I hobbled out of the bathroom like Ebeneezer Scrooge a few moments later, acute with pain, my wife gave me a look that was sympathetic, but iced with a bracing patina of “told ya so.”
“That’s, like, the least Punk Rock thing, ever,” Peggy chuckled, knowing how to effectively kick a man when he’s down.
Anyway, that was Saturday. It’s now Thursday, and while the pain has subsided to a degree, it’s still very much with me. Sitting up proves to be sharply painful, but not nearly as painful as when I happen to sneeze. My chiropractor took a look and assured me that it was just a bruise, recalling that classic Yuletide anthem by the Happy Flowers, “If It Was Broken, You’d Be Screaming.” In time, it will heal.
In the short term, I’m trying to look at the bright side … It could have been a lot worse.
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