Bags

June 16, 2018

Now I know I’m getting old! A couple years ago as I was getting ready to go outside, our grandson who was eight at the time, asked me what was that odd-shaped thing on the windowsill. “A shoehorn,” I replied. “You put it in the heel of your shoe to help you get it on without breaking down the back of the shoe.”

With a straight and serious face, he said, “Is that something they used in olden days?” I had to chase him out of the house. 

Today was the icing on the cake. Or should I say, “another nail in the coffin?” Steven Taylor and pastor Hadley, pastors of the Methodist and Baptist churches in Panama, NY, organized a blessing of the bikes and a ride for this morning. My daughter-in-law’s father rode all the way from Rochester this morning just to participate in the ride. The weather being so nice, I opted for my old half-helmet instead of the full-face I usually wear. We didn’t have much time to spare to get to the starting point on time, so instead of my usual Ural (aka “snail’s”) pace, I cranked it to a steady 55-60 mph. That’s when I noticed it. 

Most people are aware of the old ladies’ jokes about flapping arm skin. I want to confess right now my complicity in a few of them, and offer my sincere apologies to any women who suffer from such cruel twists of fate. I truly and humbly repent. For on the way to Panama in an open-faced helmet and just my regular glasses on, I felt the bags under my eyes flapping in the wind, beating like a drum on my cheeks. I am fully aware of my age. I earned my grey hair honestly. I know the indignity of the hair that was once on my head having migrated to my ears and nose where it does absolutely no good. I can no longer jump up from catcher’s pose with speed and grace. I lumber and stagger my way to my feet. But flapping eye bags? There ought to be a law!

I am grateful however, that I have lived enough years to have them. Over the years, I’ve buried too many people half my age, people who never got to see even their own children grow up, much less their grandchildren. So tomorrow, instead of my full-face helmet, I may don the half shell once more and offer thanks with each rat-a-tat-tat on my cheeks. And when I arrive at my destination, it will be with a smile on my face.