I can’t pull my socks on any more. There. I’ve said it. The hardest part of advancing thingummies is actually recognizing and then admitting that you’ve reached another milestone on the path to dissolution.
Used to be I’d practically dance into my socks on the way out of the door, and eat a slice of toast at the same time. Now I have to plan the operation, gird my whatsits to it, and then stick at it until the job gets done, ending up in a panting heap of blubber, wondering if socks are really worth the effort.
So. There’s these plastic card things, all white tape and geriontalist, that you slide into your sock, leaving a cavity ready to take your foot. Push, pull, twist, twiddle, and there you are, all done. All you need do to finish is fold the device up and stow it in your sock drawer ready for next time; soon enough the plastic will craze and the white tape will go yellow and wrinkled and redolent of old man’s foot.
I think it was my friend Bonnie first told me the bit of wisdom about how growing old isn’t for the faint of heart. Or something like that, anyway.
Never heard a truer word.
