The healing process continues for my broken foot. It's been four weeks today and there is real progress. In fact, I just graduated from the ginormous boot to this very ugly sandal/shoe.
It was really time too. The boot was squeaking and making scraping velcro noise with every step. In fact we arrived at a wedding the other day just as the bride was about to walk down the aisle. We waited for her to enter and then slipped in the side door. Unfortunately she arrived at the altar and the music stopped and, in the sudden quiet, the church echoed with the squeaks and scrapes of my boot as we made our way to our seats. I felt like doing the homecoming queen wave and saying, "Yes we're here and sorry we're late."
Though it lacks in aesthetic value, this shoe is a whole lot easier to deal with than the boot. It's not nearly as tiring for one thing. I can move about much easier. The foot is still a bit tender and I have to get off of it, but things are definitely easier.
This morning I was taking the streetcar to the hospital. I saw it coming when I was still a half a block from the stop. I tried to run, but that just wasn't happening. I'm certain I looked ridiculous, but I was bound and determined to make that streetcar. I did, but had a more pronounced limp when I got there.
The streetcar was crowded, not packed but standing room only. To my delight and surprise a man in about his 30's stood up to offer me his seat. I politely waved him off because I wasn't going very far. Still it impressed me. I took up a position by the door and pulled my book out of my bag. I saw a younger man looking at me and to be honest, I made sure my purse was closed. Nice of me, no? I felt especially guilty when he too stood up and offered me his seat. I thanked him but said I was just going a few blocks.
To those who scoff at chivalry as anti feminist I say simply pshaw. It was a very kind offer from not one, but two different gentlemen, one of whom I had pegged as a thief. They had more class than I did. They saw a person who they thought needed assistance and they offered it.
I figured I must really look like I need help today and imagined what they saw if they were looking out the window as I hobbled to the train. That make me smile to myself.
Then it hit me: Maybe it wasn't my foot at all.
Maybe it was my AGE.
I stopped smiling.