It's Time to Hang Up My Traveling Shoes
I love to travel. At least I used to. Not any more. Not since my trip last winter to Florida where I fled to escape the icy Northeast blasts.
It did not start well. When I arrived at Logan Airport, I was offered a wheel chair. Twice. Why? Did I really look that ancient? I refused the chair — twice — and started walking. Where was my damn gate? Was I going to have to walk to Florida? I was regretting the pride that made me disdain the wheels.
I finally arrived at my gate and joined the long line at security. The agent looked at me. "You don't have to wait here; you can go over there," she said pointing to a much shorter line. Great! Wait. Not so great. All the people there were old! I didn't belong with them.
"Let me help you," said another agent, taking my arm and leading me to the body scanner. "You don't have to take off your shoes," she said. I had heard that a lot of the rules had been relaxed. Good. Then I noticed that everyone else was scampering around barefooted. How come I was getting special treatment? Did I really look too old to be a threat? I knew my rights! I wanted to be considered a potential terrorist too! But even the dinging of the alarm in the body scanner reacting to my artificial hips and knee cap hardware didn't scare anyone. All it got me was sympathetic smiles and an invitation to just walk through. Instead of being handcuffed and whisked away by security, I was ushered to the pre-boarding line, along with infants and old folks. Oh, well, it would be a lot easier to get settled before the aisle was crowded with stampeding youngsters — you know, those rambunctious 70-year-olds.
Problem: I couldn't put my carry-on in the overhead bin. My shoulders screamed. A flight attendant must have heard them. She materialized at my side immediately and stashed the bag in the bin effortlessly with one hand. Show-off!
I sat down, fastened my seat belt and relaxed. For about thirty seconds. I couldn't believe it. I had to use the lavatory even though I had gone to a rest room in the airport just prior to boarding. My bladder hadn't always been this demanding, but it was now making up for lost time. All during the flight I had to make frequent trips to the lavatory, each one coinciding with turbulence and announcements for all passengers to return to their seats. Mine, of course, was by the window, which meant disrupting my two seatmates every time I had to get up. I was not winning any popularity contests.
After finally landing at my destination, I headed for Baggage Retrieval (stopping at a rest room en route, of course). My suitcase went around three times before I found the strength to yank it off the conveyor belt. Had it always been this difficult?
Reminders of my age plagued me all during my stay. At the beach, I found I could no longer sit in a low-slung sand chair. Well, I could sit in it (or, rather, fall into it), but no way could I get up out of it. I had to depend on the kindness of strangers to hoist me up before the tide came in and dragged me out to sea.
If I pulled out my cell phone to check my email, invariably it would attract the attention of someone nearby who would gush patronizingly, "Look at you!" as if I had just transformed water into wine. Apparently it's equally miraculous that someone of my advanced years has enough live brain cells to have mastered a basic electronic device.
Mealtimes presented another reality check. My limited social security income could not stretch to accommodate expensive dinners, so I would take advantage of the early bird specials, but I would tell myself they were late lunches with swingers — not early dinners with oldsters. I tried to give the impression that I would be dining lavishly around 9:00 P.M. at the latest "in" hot spot, instead of dozing off in front of the TV watching Dancing with the Stars.
Next winter, instead of heading for the tropics, I think I'll just stay home and fire up the thermostat. Then I'll relax with a cup of hot chocolate in my electric recliner that lifts me to my feet with the touch of a button, relieved to know that two bathrooms are just steps away, and I won't have to disturb anyone to get to them. And, hopefully, there won't be any turbulence.
and If These Are Laugh Lines, I'm Having Way Too Much Fun can also be ordered at Amazon.com or through Pelican Publishing (800-843-1724). Her website is rosemadelinemula.com. More Articles
- Rose Madeline Mula: If You Can't Stand the Heat
- Medicare Advantage Increasingly Popular With Seniors — But Not Hospitals and Doctors
- November 1, 2023 Chair Jerome Powell’s Press Conference on Employment and Inflation
- Julia Sneden Redux: Age Rage; Sometimes You Just Have to Strike Back
- Medical Billing and Collections Among Older Americans
- The Beige Book Summary of Commentary on Current Economic Conditions By Federal Reserve District Wednesday November 30, 2022
- A la Frank Sinatra: "Come Fly With Me", U.S. Department of Transportation Airline Customer Service Dashboard
- Shhhhhh by Ferida Wolff
- Women Consistently Earn Less Than Men; Women Are Over-represented in Lower Paying Jobs and, As They Age, the Pay Gap Widens Even More
- Yale School of the Environment's Study of Environment Found "Total Indirect Emissions from Electric Vehicles Pale in Comparison to the Indirect Emissions from Fossil Fuel-powered Vehicles"
