My husband and I decided to move an \u201cElvis Presley\u201d designed headboard. This queen-sized bed had to be disassembled and removed by workers to the garage when a new vinyl, wood-looking floor was installed in our sleeping quarters. Rather than pay a crew to carry it back to the bedroom and re-assemble it, we \u2013 a pair of frugal baby boomers \u2013 decided we\u2019d do it ourselves. My husband and I, like our Greatest Generation dads, have always been of the disposition: \u201cWhy pay good money if you can D-I Y?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
How old are we? Let\u2019s just say we were in one of the first groups offered\u2026Covid vaccines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This \u201cElvis Presley\u201d d\u00e9cor, modeled after a headboard Elvis had for his bed at Graceland, we bought 20 years ago. I thought the leather headboard was stylish, luxurious, and sexy. Maybe that last adjective was the reason they named this design after the Rock Legend. After what happened yesterday, I\u2019ve decided it was designated \u201cElvis Presley\u201d because this namesake headboard is big, massive, and\u2026overly heavy!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My husband held most of its weight. He pivoted it onto one of its sturdy feet and told me to let my side down. I\u2019m not saying whose fault it was. I\u2019m not assigning blame; however, this 100-plus pound frame came crashing down, without warning, crushing my pudgy left foot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I collapsed to the concrete floor, in agonizing pain, screaming like a pig at the abattoir. I\u2019m still surprised neighbors didn\u2019t poke 9-1-1 into their smartphones because my blood-curdling shrieks sounded like an audition for a slasher movie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy did you let go of the headboard?\u201d my husband asked. I\u2019d have gladly answered him if I hadn\u2019t been in mortal pain and screaming unintelligibly while I grasped my left foot, which glowed a pulsating purple. Within seconds, my foot tripled its size. I felt like that character on TV who turned into the Incredible Hulk; that\u2019s how fast the transformation of my previously petite \u201cpied\u2019 was. My husband, the perp, ran to the freezer and returned with a bottle of frozen water. My wounded fourth toe had an ebony-streaked gouge surrounded by mauve and magenta, and my pinkie piggie \u201ctwinned\u201d its adjoining digit. The backs of those two toes were bruised black, as well as the entire top of my foot. My appendage wasn\u2019t recognizable as human.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Too painful to squeeze my swollen left foot into my left sneaker, I sat moaning on the garage floor cradling my Neanderthal paw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs it broken?\u201d I inquired between muffled gasps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cProbably your toe is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s to be done?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot much for a broken toe. We\u2019ll tape it to the others.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cX-ray?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf the bones don\u2019t protrude through the surface, not much to be done.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA few days recovery?\u201d I groaned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe a couple of weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I moaned more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOr longer,\u201d he added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every time he touched it, I yelled out in excruciating pain. I don\u2019t think an actor being scalped in an old Western could have howled as desperately as I did. Taping the toes together helped a bit, but I couldn\u2019t put any weight on my left foot and could barely hobble to a chair. \u201cYou sit here. I\u2019ll finish moving the headboard,\u201d he said graciously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cReally?\u201d I answered with a heavy dose of sarcasm. \u201cYou\u2019ll let me just sit here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My plans that day \u2013 since I was fully inoculated against Covid-19 \u2013 had included escaping the house, maybe seeing some folks, but no, not to be! I was stuck inside with a bum foot and swollen toes that didn\u2019t look remotely humanoid. Had I ventured out, I\u2019m sure others, especially those in masks and face shields, would\u2019ve scurried away from pariah me if they\u2019ve gotten a gander at my flip-flops where two Covid-toe doppelgangers protruded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So, I sat down at my computer, too tired and too achy to compose a story or work on my novel-in-progress; instead, I\u2019d scroll a little and read some emails. Immediately, I spied an essay on ageism. It quoted an elderly woman in a long-term care facility: \u201cI think there\u2019s been a very paternalistic attitude about whether we are capable of making decisions, or the hierarchy knows better what we need.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hmm. Yes. Sometimes, there\u2019s unnecessary prejudice against old people. Sometimes, age is just a number. On the other hand, I can clearly state, based on recent personal experience, there are reasons old folks aren\u2019t furniture movers. I\u2019d question that physical avocation for those who grew up listening to The Drifters. Also, I have a bone to pick about my husband\u2019s and my decision-making. How did we conclude we were up to the task of moving heavy furniture? That group-think of ours contained a bit of faulty wiring!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So, what to do next? Grabbing my smartphone which I barely know how to use, I snapped a photo of my bruised big foot and blackened digits and zoomed it to our four adult children with a message: Old chubby mamas shouldn\u2019t move furniture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought this mode of communication was a not-so-subtle way to seek out volunteers for future heavy lifting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All four sympathetic souls responded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOuch!\u201d said my oldest son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLooks painful,\u201d said my second son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOuch. Ouch.\u201d noted my third son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYikes! exclaimed my daughter with sad emojis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ouch? \u2013 that does sum it up!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Since no one asked why in tarnation their senior citizen parents were moving furniture, I guess my enlightened offspring believe that popular saying, bantered about, \u201cAge is just a number.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not me! I\u2019ve discovered there\u2019s a reason or two \u2013 or a couple hundred \u2013 why old folks aren\u2019t furniture movers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As a footnote to this tale of woes and toes, I got the x-ray done. A broken toe? Indeed, it was!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like all unlucky occurrences, there lurks a silver lining among the mauve and magenta. This past North Carolina winter, I could forecast snow and ice and freezing cold, miserable weather at least a day ahead of time. I\u2019m more accurate than the perky weather gals.<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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