SOCK IT TO ME

 

Improvise! Adapt! Overcome!

One of the joys of aging is finding creative new ways to do things that you’ve done all your life with no excess trauma, such as putting on your socks. If you’re interested in stability, however, attempting this feat in a swivel rocker might not be the most productive course of action.

My son The Showoff can stand on one foot and, without wavering, pull a sock on without spinning like a weathervane in the direct path of Hurricane Helene or hopping like Peter Rabbit on Easter. Due to unique health issues, I can’t even walk to the bathroom without experiencing both events. I generally end up standing in the hallway litter box. It turns out that sand is only desirable between your toes at a place where the tide goes in and out. 

In a world where you can press a button to wipe out typing mistakes, the folks in charge of the universe still see fit to locate your right foot farther away than your left. Some people view this as God’s sense of humor, which I find is not even closely aligned with my own. My left sock goes on like hot fudge on a sundae, but my right foot bobs and weaves like Mike Tyson in his prime. I figure the distance to my left foot is measured in large print and the distance to my right foot is dog years.

I tried propping my foot in my the living room swivel rocker (also known as the Tilt-a-Whirl) for support. This method of sock manipulation was unsuccessful if you count encasing your foot in a sleeping cat and your sock residing on the dog’s nose like a gold toe condom as undesirable. As the chair spun left, the cat decorated my shin with claw marks in a clever barber pole design, then cited me for assault. Our attorneys are in talks. 

So, in the manner of Wile. E. Coyote, who never gave up on the Roadrunner, I took the adventure up a level. I used two swivel chairs with the idea that foot and shoe would undoubtedly meet up sooner or late like rotating gears. It works with clocks, right? What could go wrong?

I forgot that clocks have gone digital.

Perching at my desk in an office chair and using the swivel rocker as a runway, I discovered why Mr. Coyote always ended up on a fast track to a crash landing. Both chairs displayed the sort of flair for fast turns you normally find on the Indianapolis Speedway. The resulting wardrobe malfunction led to the friendly folks at Urgent Care encouraging me to apply myself to other methods.

So if you see me out and about, don’t look at my ankles. I’m just following doctor’s orders.