During January, I fell twice without the aid of a single malt. When you get to be my age the balance and knees aren’t what they used to be. The first fall was my wife’s fault. She asked me before coffee to retrieve one of her items stored in my shop. Even though it is my shop, her items tend to overflow from her space into mine. My space is full of plastic totes full of fabric, her cloths that will fit her again sometime in the future, Christmas decorations, and other miscellaneous items that do not belong in the fortress of do it yourself. I could say no but as we are approaching 52 years of marital bliss, I know when to keep my mouth shut most of the time. Besides, I take a bit of revenge from her having to clean the sawdust off the things she requests me to fetch.
Like I said, my first fall was her fault. First no coffee. What little balance I have left in the old body requires daylight and coffee. Next in line is proper foot ware. Crocks don’t cut it. I have to wear crocks as I am not allowed to stretch out on the sofa in shoes. This means I spend most of my time in the house in stocking feet. Problem is my shop requires a short walk on outside to get there. I just can’t bring myself to do this is socks. Nothing worse that walking around in wet sock all day and I get ass thumped if caught on the sofa in wet socks. I just don’t understand this as she lets the dog on the sofa after she comes in from the yard with muddy feet and a wet body. I guess I know where I rate in the pecking order. So rather than putting on real shoes I am stuck with crocks. I like crocks, but with type II diabetes I cannot feel my feet and the crocks tend to slip off my feet a bit, a situation to which I am often unaware of, especially without my morning coffee. The result was a nasty fall onto the concrete, bruising my hip and scraping my elbow.
Why I can feel my feet is a condition called neuropathy. Judy has trouble with this word often calling it necropsy which is a term that has something to do with the examination of dead tissue. Or she will call it necromancy which has something to do with communicating with the dead. To which I commented,
“at least in my favor you didn’t call it necrophilia”
“What’s that?” she responded.
“Having sex with a corps” I foolishly said.
“Does rigor mortis last that long?”
Yes, she really said that. I had no idea that a 72-year-old who I have known for almost my entire life could be that kinky.
Two days later I fell again. This on was all my fault. We had company and I had promised the Katie, our 13-year-old great niece, a fossil hunting trip. The Oregon Coast is fantastic fossil and agate hunting area, especially in winter as the sand washes off some of the beaches to expose Miocene mudstones filled with clam, crab, mussel, and petrified driftwood fossils. With the sand off the beach, you simply walk around staring down at the mostly flat rocks, looking for telltale shapes which are easily removed from the soft mudstone even with a flat head screwdriver. There are also abundant marine mammal fossils here, but as these creatures were rapidly evolving during that epoch, they should be left alone for the experts to remove and study. Fossil hunting during the winter is like walking on an asphalt paved parking lot looking for embedded bottle caps. Surprisingly it does not rain everyday nor does a gale wind blow all the time on the coast. No hiking for miles in rough terrain in the middle of the Gobi Desert in the blazing sun or hanging from a cliff by ropes for me. If the tide is right, the sun is out, even I am up for a leisurely stroll on a rocky beach. This going to be fun, or so I thought.
Only problem was the beach with fifteen feet below the parking lot down a wet, muddy, and cobble strewn path. Got halfway down, lost my footing, and landed on my shoulder on the flat beach below. Lucky for me I missed the big rocks. And yes, I was wearing real shoes, not crocks. I am not that stupid. But the fall knocked the wind out of me and exposed my skinny ass to the tourists who had navigated the path with more skill than I. One of the tourists ran over to help me up as it knocked the wind out of me. Being helped up by a tourist was bad enough but my plumber’s ass was hanging out of my pants making it doubly embarrassing, with the emphasis on the bare ass. She even assisted me with pulling up my pants, telling me it was okay as she was a nurse. With all that has gone on in the last couple of years, I can relate to the fact that nurses are real life heroes, as they can perform their duties in the most disgusting of circumstances. More than my pride was injured in that fall. I hurt my ribs and right shoulder. Took a month for the ribs to recover and the shoulder is slowing getting better. Needless to say, my fossil hunting on the beach is over till next year as the sand is already covering up the treasures. Only plus to me be a tottering old fool is I got to take it easy on the couch for a couple of weeks and play videogames. Any fetching in the shop was done by Judy and she didn’t bitch about it even once. Every time I offered to get off my ass, she patted me on the head, told me she loved me, and noted how good I was getting at killing Nazis. Damn, I married well.