An Old Lady Eats Dirt
When the mighty become the fallen!
Without warning and with complete lack of finesse, I plummeted floorward, leading with, it transpired, a totally fragile body part!
I am not altogether sure how I accomplished my inglorious fall from grace, but in complete transparency, I feel the need to confess that it wasn’t whilst riding a ridiculous, antiquated motorcycle, dressed in outrageous leathers (as pictured in the illustration above).
Had that been the case, I would be celebrating my mishap with a glass of rarely consumed wine, espousing my random, devil-may-care quest for adventure, and chalking my injuries up to a free spirit and careless abandonment.
The sad truth is, one cold morning a fortnight ago, I waved my better half goodbye from beneath the depths of a doona as he left for an early appointment. Guiltily (I could have gone with him), I wrangled with the pros and cons of staying put or getting a head start on the day so that we could spend some quality time when he returned.
Long story interspersed with a myriad of commas for the sake of expediency …
I wrestled conscience, wrestled doona, wrangled with wardrobe choice (a touch of OCD), dressed, took one step, got snagged by a strong invisible hand that snaked stealthily from beneath the bed (sounds more dramatic than, “I tripped over a massive lump of fresh air”) and performed a ten-out-of-ten degree of difficulty dive to the floor.
A dramatic faint and revive routine, followed by an agonising locating of mobile phone, call to neighbours, crawl to the locked front door, ER, X-rays, diagnosis; fractured upper humerus — not effin’ funny in the least!
So, here I sit with my little notebook computer precariously perched on a not-so-stable, stable table, stabbing at my keyboard with an index finger. Writing, previously, my life focus has been reduced to ‘every little movement has a disproportionately, not-so-equal and opposite, pain response.’
But write, I must, because I need you (me) to understand why my fall in older age has had such a demoralizing effect on my psyche. Also, by completing and publishing this little one-finger (visualise extended middle finger, right hand) missive, I hope to establish a connection with other aged “fellow fallers.”
In my youth and younger adult years, I was a superhero!
This may seem like an exaggerated claim to fame by those of you who possess a bullshit metre that has been honed to perfection over many decades, but I ask you to suspend your disbelief while I explain.
Until the age of ten, I allowed my working-class parents to manipulate me into ballet lessons (sissy stuff for under-coordinated girls who were in it for the boofy, (Australian slang), pink tutus, and shiny pink ballet slippers. My companions in these classes lived for the days when they were deemed old enough and experienced enough to shove little wooden blocks into the toes of their shoes to practise en pointe. Translated, it simply meant that the girls had permission to torture and eventually disfigure their feet and ankles.
I begged my parents to let me off the self-humiliation and self-mutilation. I had grander ideas of being a martial arts expert, an archer (like Robin Hood), The Lone Ranger, someone who blew shit up with explosives, a Native American Indian and a springboard diver (hence my degree of difficulty reference earlier in this piece.)
Strangely, I achieved most of my desires and many others, one way or another, during the following years. But, unfortunately, in the pursuit of these activities, I managed to rack up a myriad of self-humiliation experiences and a truckload of accidental self-mutilations. Go figure!
Speaking of mutilations, I forgot to mention my childhood piano lessons which were overseen by an easily angered but highly recommended Scottish teacher. The woman had a nasty habit of slamming the piano lid down on unsuspecting fingers when mistakes were made.
I spent more time agonising over impending crushings than I did learning anything. I was thrilled when my impoverished parents had to cancel my lessons. They mistook my joy at not continuing classes as an indication that music was not my thing. I often wonder if arthritis in my fingers, now, is a legacy bestowed on me by Mrs. MacCrusher.
I know many of you will be appalled by this narrative, but I beg you — don’t be too concerned. It was a different world, alien to anything most kids experience in the Western world today. We grew up expecting to get a wallop from the local policeman for our many misdemeanors or potentially receiving a butt full of saltpetre fired from a local farmer’s shotgun, purely for stripping his orchard of feijoas. (That was the threat, anyway, and I was always careful not to get caught- the feijoas resulted in awesome homemade jam, by the way)!
My only burning creative desires were to become a pop star and an author. You guessed it- ta-dah!! Nailed it! Well, the pop-star reference is a bit of an exaggeration, so I’ll explain.
Mother was a community opera singer with very negative ideas about child stardom. She held the belief that training a young voice would ruin it. I held the belief that if I waited until I grew pubic hair and breasts, it would be too late to do anything!
As luck would have it, I heard of a local lady giving free voice lessons and providing accompaniment for the local, much revered, competitions.
Consequently, I push-biked my way to secret lessons for months. The jig was up when Competition programmes were deposited in local letterboxes, and my mother discovered my name in six categories. Fortunately, she was bombarded with congratulations on my success at getting selected and saved face by begrudgingly going along with my plans. Also, long story short, over the next twenty years, I learned guitar, joined bands and enjoyed professional residencies at clubs, pubs and restaurants, etcetera.
Perhaps, you are now beginning to understand why, in my mind, I had the idea that I might be stronger, braver and more streetwise than the average girl/woman of my time. I carried with me a natural fitness and muscle memory that stayed with me until my sixties.
My physical decline was insidious and sneaky, tricking my mind into believing that I could return to my glory days if I could motivate myself into spending hours daily on the treadmill and gliding religiously through Tai Chi routines.
Writing, however, had a far greater pull, allowing me to fantasize on a grand scale while compartmentalizing the obvious need for regular specialist appointments and visits to the pharmacy.
Active denial is a fine thing.
I know there are many superheroes of a certain age out there; gorgeous, interesting people with wild histories of bravery and daring-do that far outshine my own. I can’t wait to hear your stories!
Hello to the folks who understand that the reflection in their mirrors belie the stout warriors still residing in their minds; fighters who only go down when outnumbered by the enemy, when the odds are stacked so heavily against them, they can’t possibly endure.
These days, we might trip over large lumps of undetected air, but that is not who we truly are.
I see the real you behind those craggy, dulled eyes and wrinkled faces, and I salute you for everything you have given your families and communities. My gratitude goes out to all the ageing heroes nodding off in their armchairs, still dreaming of saving the world and righting wrongs.
Happy dreaming,
Raine Lore.
PS. — To answer those few pressing questions I know you now have;
- I studied martial arts for several years, which was responsible for my placing myself in several idiotic superhero situations.
- I still possess a compound bow and love archery. However, I think my latest injury may mean those days are over!
- No, I didn’t become the Lone Ranger, but over the years, I entertained many parents and children with a rousing rendition of “A Four-legged Friend.”
- My father’s flattened garden shed bore testament to my fascination with explosives.
- At age fourteen, I was awarded a trophy for first place in the women’s category at the local diving competitions.
Of course, a young white girl, born in the Southern Hemisphere, could not possibly transition into a Native American Indian male, but I eventually married one.
Haha, you didn’t see that coming, did you? It’s true, but it eventually ended badly.
