The Podiatrist

There used to be a time when, if something hurt there was a reason. My foot hurt because my horse had stepped on it. My leg muscles hurt because I'd been on a long ride. My throat hurt because I'd been sick. Whatever the hurt, always a reason.

Lately, there's not always a reason. At least not one I want to acknowledge. Old and fat is a reason, but I'd rather not consider it just yet. Now it seems that I'm just falling apart for no reason.

I wake up at five in the morning and have to get out of bed because there is no longer any position that stops the pain in my back. This could, of course, be blamed on a bad mattress. However, when I was twenty a bad mattress wasn't such an issue.

At work, my elbow hurts when I hold my hands up to type on the keyboard. An older lady in the office showed me a strap she uses on her forearm to ease the elbow pain. I suppose I'll go buy one.

I was just pulling a blanket from the clothes drier. When I gripped it to drag it out, my wrist hurt. I can't even have the satisfaction of knowing that it's because I spent all day yesterday pruning the bushes...because I didn't. They probably make a wrap for this too.

The part that is hardest to stomach though is that my feet hurt to the point that I've gone to the podiatrist. The podiatrist! Not only did I go to the podiatrist, but I now have orthodics on order. I've been to the podiatrist and ordered orthodics. If there is a single statement in the English language that will make you feel older than that one does, I don't know what it would be.

I seem to be simply unraveling. But the way I see it, I can let the ends all fray out and feel sorry for myself, or I can take what the podiatrist and the ace bandage aisle at Walmart have to offer and hold everything together and get on with it...no matter how frumpy it makes me feel to now have a podiatrist.