Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I recently returned from a wonderful trip to Australia and came home with an unexpected souvenir. I am worried that it has ushered in my Calamity Jane era.
Once rather graceful (my own assessment) and confident in high heels and trendy clothes, I have a new look that’s anything but graceful. Think klutzy.
I had been vaguely aware of the tendency of older people to fall, but since I keep myself physically fit I thought such clumsiness would never befall (excuse the pun) me.
On my second day in Australia, during a tour of the Blue Mountains outside Sydney, I was taking pictures of the magnificent vistas. Walking along the path to a café, I was involved with the camera, didn’t see a small step and went down on all fours – a moment so completely not graceful that my injuries paled in comparison to my embarrassment.
I may have said something decidedly unladylike yet cathartic and appropriate to the situation. After scraping myself off the pavement, I decided that although I was bruised and battered I could continue the day’s touring. With bandages on my knees, I was off.
Two weeks later, walking a trail in Melbourne, I was chatting with the Man in My Life and gazing eagerly into the trees to spot local birdlife (I’m prone to being thus distracted). My foot caught in a pothole. Down I went – again.
This time was more serious. My knees, barely recovered from the last fall, were bleeding profusely. My pants were torn, gravel was embedded in my skin. My foot hurt – a lot.
But I could still stand and walk. I figured, being an expert in all things medical (I am a mother), that I had sprained something, but hadn’t broken any bones. Nothing was sticking out at an odd angle. The pain was manageable.
I felt somewhat smug in the knowledge that, when I related the incident to my grown children, I would be able to add defensively: “I was wearing my good running shoes, the sturdy ones, not flimsy sandals or heels.” I assumed that would get me off the hook with them. No such luck.
We continued our trip and walked over three kilometres sightseeing in Canberra. I paid little attention to the creeping black hue and swelling that were changing my normally deformed, ugly foot into a Frankenstein-worthy appendage. As long as I could still get my shoes on and walk, I’d ignore it. Head in the sand, anyone?
Upon returning home, I fessed up to my children.
They yelled: “Mom, go to the doctor! Your feet are a disgrace at the best of times. You’ll really be up the creek if you can’t walk. You might have broken one of your osteoporotic little bird bones.”
It pained me to admit they had a point. I would be miserable if I couldn’t resume my vigorous walking schedule. Swallowing my pride, I went to the doctor.
“I don’t see anything to worry about. Probably just a sprain. But to be on the safe side, let’s do an X-ray.” He looked askance at the condition of my foot. I hoped it wouldn’t trigger nightmares for him. The X-ray proved I had a tiny fracture at the tip of my ankle bone.
“What can you do about it?” I foolishly queried. I had already figured it was impossible to treat and the doctor would let it heal of its own accord.
“A walking boot cast for six weeks,” he informed me.
“A what, now?”
So began six weeks of bumbling around with The Boot, a huge, clunky affair out of all proportion to my body and foot – even with the swelling.
I faced some serious “what to wear” struggles. Unfortunately, I had some special events to attend – one of which was a ceremony at my alma mater, where I was to receive an honour for volunteer work. I wanted to look my best, factoring in iffy weather, steep steps and the academic gown I’d be wearing over my clothes. My good foot would need to feature something with the same height of heel as The Boot, lest I wobble. My preferred high heels were a non-starter. Flats it would have to be.
With the gown came another problem; the smallest size available was too long for me. I usually compensate with heels, but not this time. The gown might trail on the ground and possibly catch on The Boot’s protruding Velcro closures. So much for grace and poise.
I recognize that caring about my appearance is shallow, but I am not yet ready to relegate myself to the trash heap of feminine allure. A pretty top and pants it was. The pants couldn’t be too wide at the ankle or they wouldn’t tuck inside The Boot, or too skinny to be appropriate for the gravity of the occasion.
My daughter’s suggestion was to strap a bow or stencil a high heel on The Boot and call it a day. Everyone would be so interested in the bling they’d ignore my outfit.
In the end, I realized that with old age comes the licence to a little eccentricity. People already think you’ve lost the plot and are well into senility. Fine.
I waltzed in wearing a brightly-coloured flappy top, black pants, one pink flat and a bright fuchsia coat. And, of course, The Boot – the ultimate accessory. Just call me Thumper.
Laurie Best lives in Waterloo, Ont.