When you're old, you're old

Gloria Masoner

Michelle and Dawn have an ongoing argument at work. For some reason, Michelle -- who is barely past her teens -- has an overwhelming desire to call the rest of us -- who can barely remember our teens -- "old fogies."

Dawn has instructed her, in no uncertain terms, that it is impolite to call her co-workers "old fogies."

Instead, she has given her a phrase to recite every time the thought pops into her head. Dawn was kind enough to write it down and place it on her computer, so she won't forget.

"I work with an amazing group of intellectually stimulating, funny and entertaining people who belie the number of their years by their youthful attitude."

"Okay," Michelle must be thinking, "Whatever makes you feel better -- but you're still old."

I hate to admit it, but after my last visit to the doctor, I now have to face reality. I am an old fogey.

After my little escapade with the quick remodeling project, I found it difficult to move. My knees wouldn't bend and when they did, it sounded like I was trying to sand an emery board. In addition to that my ankle seemed to have bound up to the point where I could barely move it an inch in any given direction.

I'd finally had enough and decided to go see the doctor. He greased all my moving parts and implied it should carry me for a while, but eventually I was going to have to think about getting a replacement.

Now I don't get around much, but I've never come across a store called "Harry's Knee Shop -- We Finance Almost Anybody!" What I want to know is this -- What kind of trade-in do you get on used knees?

The evening following my lube job, my husband Brad made amazing leaps into domesticity. I arrived home from work, barely able to walk and he jumped at the chance to help around the house.

Not only did he stack the dishes in the sink so I could wash them when I was feeling better -- he cooked frozen pizza for supper so I could remain in the recliner with the heating pad on my knees.

Actually the fix came just in time. With hunting season coming up, my husband is anxiously looking forward to getting the guns out and forcing me to walk through pastures with big holes. The last time I walked through a pasture, I found the big hole and pretty much humiliated myself in front of a group of about eight people.

I guess the one benefit of having weak ankles is that Brad won't let me carry the gun. He's afraid it will go off when I hit the ground and for some reason he doesn't want to find out what the consequences might be.