The Shore Run/Walk runners, walkers and babies in strollers headed right into Madison Park and to all the post-run excitement.
And I watched them from my balcony, trying to decide whether to scream or cry or spend the rest of the day with the blanket over my head as I was registered and had a number. I even trained a bit.
There are people who swear the world is flat; others believe the moon is made of cream cheese. Well, we might as well add to the list of true believers one Roberta Cole, who knows without a doubt she can carry a newspaper, a cup of coffee, a how-to book and her faithful cane down a flight of stairs. This was in spite of all the reminders that going upstairs is good exercise and rather fun, but going down stairs is akin to a death wish.
FALLING HEAD OVER HEELS
I was heading for the chapel for the Pilates class. I felt as if I owned the world. It was Pilates time, I was on time and the sun was shining.
And then reality stuck with a vengeance. I bade the stairs farewell and propelled myself onto the cement landing - my back first. And then with a sound like a shot heard around the world, the back of my head followed.
I lay there contemplating my situation, trying to feel which area was crying for mercy the loudest and wondering whether anyone would use the stairs in the next hour or two.
Naturally, I didn't have my emergency necklace on so I could buzz someone, nor did I have my usually present cell phone with me.
Since I discovered I really couldn't get up, I resigned myself to lying there and wondering what could be done about immigration.
At that second, someone - a reincarnation of Florence Nightingale - did come. We hauled me out, I went to my doctor's office and life marched on - except that I couldn't bend forward or backward and wasn't superb at bending sideways.
I was furious, as were the people who gathered around and tended to the usual things that doctors do: determined I hadn't broken anything, and recommended I take pain pills as needed and rest until I felt better.
I - who believe in miracles and modern medicine - was astonished: No miracle, no magic pill, not even a Band-Aid. How could I hurt from hither to yon and the medical profession have no cure?
NOT LIKE OLD TIMES
A week later now, a bushel basket full of pills and gadgets and still no miracles.
However, my fall and resulting immobility have given me time not only to read and sleep but to face the fact that I, at 80, can't behave like a 40-year-old, in spite of my inner voice saying, "Of course, you can." It's very difficult to admit such a slowing-down, but I guess I - along with most senior citizens - must race reality, hard as it is.
Telephone numbers, birthdays, being fleet of foot, driving at night, learning a language, staying up until the wee hours, understanding the lyrics of today's songs are among the myriad ways we are constantly reminded that we aren't the people we were 40 or 50 years ago.
I have been driven to taking a vow that I will not carry hot coffee when I'm walking about.
I will not carry three things in one hand and clutch the morning newspaper to me with the other holding my cane.
I will bid farewell to stairs and take the elevator like a normal human being of advancing age.
"Vive la différence between now and then," I say.
While remembering the way we were at times makes us long to return to those days, I realize I'm quite content to live with the memories and live for today.
Now to convince my alter ego of that.
Madison Park's Roberta Cole can be reached via e-mail at mptimes@nwlink.com
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