Last week, one of my three weekly sessions of physical therapy ended and I walked out of the building. One of my therapists--whose name I can confidently now say is "Amber," although I'll never say this aloud (I never say anyone's name, and am taken aback when someone else does. Why? Some of the reasons are obvious--"just because" and so on--but I rarely say anyone's name. This is probably a defense mechanism that allows me to continue forgetting/not caring/etc.)--walked next to me on the way out the door. This happens frequently, and I suspect this is because the other patients, for the most part, are boring and/or too dumb to say anything interesting (I have the same relationship with all other vocational professionals, be they doctors, nurses, hairdressers, cooks, priests, and so on.) This easy rapport can be attributed to what one of my ex-girlfriends, somewhat rudely and insultingly, attributed to my sense of entitlement. It's not that I feel superior to anyone. I might, but that is neither here nor there. Actually, I am not intimidated by, well, anything. Who gives a shit if someone has a graduate degree or some other worthless accreditation? Anyways, let's get out of this skid. I steered into it by indulging myself and now it should be safe to proceed.
So I exited the building after another arduous hour of physical therapy and felt myself pitch to the left. Without thinking, I reached over and steadied myself by grabbing my therapist's left arm. I can't confidently say that nothing would have happened if I had done nothing, but she was there so I reached out and defused the situation before it became pitiful. Luckily, she was standing right next to me, so grabbing her arm was as natural to me as "taking the arm of an elm-tree," as Emerson said of walking with Thoreau.
In the glass of the doors through which we were headed, I caught my reflection as we passed through. I was walking fine, and even confidently. I've grown quite accustomed to walking with my arm inside that of another. I even have a joke about this. Once, my brother was walking with me, and I looked at him and said, in a genteel Southern accent that was straight out of Tennessee Wilson, "Do you think we're dressed okay for the cotillion?" Like Blanche DuBois as played by Vivien Leigh, grabbing someone's arm does not bother me.
It might be possible that my reliance on someone's arm for balance is entirely mental, but I don't want to find out. The short walk from the gym to the car could have been disastrous. Theoretically, I could have tumbled over, but nothing this dramatic seems to happen, thankfully. In fact, I get asked this question a lot by medical personnel: "When was the last time you fell?" I have never fallen, although now I may have cursed and doomed myself. In a month, I'll probably be in a cast. However, I have never broken a bone, nor been stung by a bee. Knock on wood.
I'm not worried, though, because I've witnessed innumerable bee stings, or at least heard stories of them, and have yet to be stung. Ditto for breaking a bone. This evens out in the end because of my use of a cane, of which I have six (I think) and also "Preferred Customer" status at FashionableCanes.com. As I've said before, I use one mainly to deflect accusations of drunkenness.
I would love to be tethered to a zip-line that runs over my head wherever I go. Not a leash, mind you. Semantics, you say? Well, I was an English major, so sometimes semantics is all I have.
R
