The thing about this old age stuff is that it’s silent and you don’t know it’s happening to you. I hear a yell from the kitchen today and look up from the couch (the kitchen is in the living room in this retirement home) to see that the door under the sink has come off its hinge. “No problem,” I say to my wife. “That’s an easy one. Don’t call maintenance; I can tighten the screws myself.” I unwind from the couch and make my way to the study. This is a matter of 10 paces, which I cover quickly.
The screwdriver is kept in the little pot with the spare pens and pencils, rubber bands and assorted clips. I know where the screwdriver is. It is only keys and specs that can never be found.
In the kitchen I have to get down on the floor. This is easy and I manage to keep from thinking about the return trip. I also ignore various creaks and groans coming from my knees. A little lubrication from the Black Label bottle will fix those. “Pass me my glasses,” I say. Yes, of course I forgot them. Anyone can do that. Once I can see the screw I tighten it. I even remember that clockwise tightens.
Now we have arrived at the first sign of old age. Luckily I am near the sink and I can get a grip. I lever my 75 kilos into a standing position and manage to get my hands into the small of my back before the cramp and pain strikes.
Back on the couch I can see the result of my work and admire the straightness of the door. So what’s the big deal of being 79.5 years old? Next year may be a problem, though.