Apparently it's time. Apparently it makes sense. Apparently it's all very practical and grown up.
Apparently I must put on my big girl undies and be reasonable.
Well screw that.
So far my kids have enjoyed using it to do wheelies on the road out front.
Me? I've mostly managed to avoid looking at it as I head out the front door. And kicked the wheel and called it an arsehole. Because I'm mature like that. (sigh)
But the reality (is there a suckier word around?) is I do need it at the moment (yes I said 'moment', because in my delusional head this isn't a forever thing) if I have to walk more than about 50m.
Okay, so maybe the other day when I went with The L-Plater in search of size 14 footy boots, I may have said, out loud, that perhaps we should have put it in the car. Well wheezed it, in between panting and leaning on him for support as I stumbled from the car park to the shopping centre entrance. Maybe. But if anyone brings it up I'll deny it till I'm blue in the face.
For new readers here's a re-post of Studio 30 Plus piece from last year, which may give you an insight into my high level of maturity regarding this issue. Or this one where I sucked it up and finally purchased a cane.
I reached another exciting milestone in the world of crap health last week. My first time in a wheelchair. Or as I like to call it, the soul destroying spawn of Satan, that makes life suck sweaty, hairy, donkey balls. Do you think it'll catch on? Now I do admit that I may have a small flair for the dramatic, but I do think it describes it quite well.
I've been reliably informed by all and sundry, that I should be much more practical and mature about these things. You know, that whole “act like an adult” malarkey. But even at 38, I have never embraced the whole maturity thing. Frankly, it all seems rather cult-like, and I will not be drinking the Cool Aid any time soon.
To be completely truthful, my preference would be to pass out and land face first in the lap of an old musty granny in the food court. Better that, than sit in that chair of doom. But I acquiesced, with a good dose of pouting and foot stamping, and agreed to being wheeled around a shopping centre for three hours. And okay, it did make the whole process easier. And yes, I didn't have an unfortunate granny incident. Which was probably a good thing for both myself and all the unsuspecting grannies in the vicinity. But there were still the balls of donkeys being sucked, left, right, and centre.
This isn't the first event in the past five years worthy of tea bagging a member of the Equidae family. There have been many, many moments of fun since my body decided to embrace an obscure disorder and give my life an atomic wedgie.
Buying my first pair of granny compression hose was a blast. Though in truth, the best part may have been telling the pharmacist that they are what all the local hookers wear to turn on their elderly clients. I may also have added that combined with a dab of Bengay behind the ears and on the wrist, they are better than Viagra for those randy old silver foxes. Her shocked face did suggest my attempts at humour may have gone a little astray. On reflection, that may explain why I am met with a look of disapproval every time I go in to refill my prescriptions. Putting them on is about as easy as wrestling a giant squid, and requires a nanna nap for recovery. This is only slightly offset by the fact they work better than Spanx to lift my arse and smooth out my ever expanding saddle bags. Whilst I do feel an overwhelming need to seek out a blue rinse every time I put them on, I am willing, although reluctantly, to admit they do help, a bit.
Buying my first shower chair from the 'aged care' section of the store, was brilliant. In the way that falling into a pile of monkey vomit is brilliant. For months, I persevered. No shower was going to get the best of me. I was undeterred by the heat dropping my bp and ending up legs akimbo in the bottom of my manky shower. I was even undeterred by the possibility that my unconscious, moist, pasty, blancmanged, and naked body may be found by strangers should I faint. Rather, this further inspired me to shout my defiance to the universe like a mad woman, “Mwahahahahaha, I laugh in the face of naked danger”. Instead the large colony of mould and short and curlies cohabiting and seemingly reproducing in the bottom of my shower were the incentive for purchasing that practical piece of plastic. Even now, over a year later, I curse that chair, and insult its mother, every time I step in to wash away the funk of ill health.
Buying my first dosette box for my ever growing pharmaceutical collection, rates up there with falling on the rough end of the pineapple, whilst shouting “may I have some more”. When my grandmother-in-law bemoaned the fact that she needed to take a single tablet a day at 80, I may have envisioned beating her to a bloody pulp with my dosette box, which currently contains 133, 19 per day, individual tablets for my week. Again, whilst I would consider this investment very useful if I were a mature and rational individual, I instead see it more as a pain in the arse to fill each week. A dosette box is required as I have the memory like a goldfish and am easily distracted by bright shiny objects. Personally, I think that makes me unpredictable and fun, but I have been reliably informed by the responsible members of my household that it makes me prone to forgetting my tablets. Unfortunately, the ineffectual little box doesn't alert me when I have forgotten to take my tablets. It has become little more than a place for unloved tablets to reside and a prompt for my husband to berate me for my dumbarsedness. A disheartening reminder of my decrepitude and about as useful as a Speedo on a Lemur.
Buying my first walking stick was up there with a rectal probe. Despite requiring one for a few years now it is only recently I have admitted defeat. I now have a practical stick with a pattern more suitable for Holly Hobby, than a woman who still giggles every time a sports commentator mentions an AFL played by the name of “Goldsack”. I was swayed by the crafty saleswoman who pointed out that it was a great option for a 'young' woman like myself. Damn, my nearly 40-year-old arse is easy. I'm surprised she didn't say it made my bum look smaller. I continue to despise it, and tend to combine its use with muttering angrily under my breath and swearing, when it inevitably becomes tangled in my legs and handbag. Stumbling like a drunk, arms flailing, is still my preferred mode of walking. I would rather stagger into, and grab, the many Japanese tourists who frequent my local area. I'm sure I'd make for a great photo opportunity, and just think what I'd be doing for my local tourism board. I can see the billboards now, “See our beautiful flora and fauna. Sample our local wines and produce. Be groped by strange seemingly-drunk women”. Why would I be practical and mature when I can provide such a public service?
And so the list of donkey ball sucking events continues. Maturity and I will not meet up any time soon. The Cool Aid shall not be drunk. I will continue to rally against the practical automatons who tell me to sit down, put on a jumper, have a rest, or any of the other rational dogma they throw my way. Beware unsuspecting grannies, this 38-year-old stupidly stubborn woman may be face planting in your lap sometime soon.
Now if there's any artsy folk in the Melbourne area who'd like to pimp Bernice up a bit I'm willing to hand her over. The old girl needs some bling of some sort to make her usage more bearable. Just be gentle.
Somehow this seems so perfect.
Somehow this seems so perfect.