A Few Words

I keep walking into doors. Or more precisely, door jambs.

In the past, my brain handled stuff like this for me — Hey, look out, it said. Door jamb approaching. It communicated the message to my body — Hey, adjust course! Door jamb approaching.

By the time that message circulates now, I’m holding my head and telling bystanders, “It’s fine, I’m fine. No, I’m not hurt — it’s OK, please, go home, citizens. Nothing to see here.”

Oddly, these recent navigational glitches seem to target my left elbow in particular. Every week or so, I slam my left funny bone into something new — my dresser, the car door, the top of the dog’s head, a passing vehicle, the ever-present door jamb.

Why? I’m wider than I used to be, I admit it. Has my brain failed to recalibrate?  

I’m not afraid of growing old. Gray hair, the inexplicable longing for “Hill Street Blues” reruns, an urge to begin sentences with, “Well, in my day ...” These aspects of aging I can handle.

And I’m doing OK. In good light, I can still make out the tiny hieroglyphs that explain directions for over-the-counter cold medicine. Most days, I can step off a curb without face-planting into the cross walk. I can decode the programming information of 27 separate streaming services.

But awhile back, I opened the refrigerator door into my own head. Smack. I think I heard the refrigerator laughing. No carrots for you! I reached in and took the carrots anyway. Then I gently pushed the door closed with my left elbow, to prove a point. You can’t let your appliances get ahead of you.

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