By Leah S. Dunaief
Publisher
Aging has become a frequent subject in the media, perhaps propelled there by our presidential race and its elderly candidates. We are all, of course, aging, and we all want to age well. This plethora of information gives us a chance to measure our health against standard values for our age. The statistics are also comforting: we are not alone with our symptoms and infirmities. We want to be equal or better than predicted for our age.
But are we?
I accepted a delivery from the messenger at my front door and reached for my wallet to pay him the charge. But herein lies the story.
Years ago, I gave up carrying a pocketbook because I was getting lame from carrying everything in there but the proverbial kitchen sink. My doctor, whom I had visited with complaints of an aching shoulder, and who noticed my dead weight tote, pointed out that most men don’t carry pocketbooks and they seem to do fine. Men, after all, keep everything they need for daily living in their pockets.
He advised me to do the same.
He was right. I observed men carefully at checkout lines in supermarkets and in restaurants. They settled the bills with whatever they withdrew from their pockets and went merrily on their way. They carried their door keys in their pockets, and some even took out a comb occasionally to run through their hair. I reasoned that I could do that, too, with my lipstick. The doctor changed my life that day. And my shoulder never again bothered me.
Since then, I have bought clothes with pockets and used them instead of a pocketbook for my routine needs unless I am wearing a gown or a bathing suit. So I was wearing shorts that day, when I paid the driver, then replaced my wallet in my pocket.
Or so I thought.
Later, when I was getting ready to go to my annual dentist appointment, I reached into my pocket to check for my wallet and panicked. It wasn’t there. I could feel the coarse material at the bottom. The pocket was empty.
What had I done with my wallet after I paid for the package? I pivoted to look next to the still unopened box on the front hall table. Nothing. Thinking I absent-mindedly carried the wallet into the living room and put it down next to my reading chair, I entered and found only the day’s newspaper there. Concern mounting, I quickly walked around to the kitchen and scanned the empty counters.
Now I was beginning to panic. If I didn’t find my wallet quickly, I was going to be late for my appointment. It came to me in a flash. I must have brought the wallet to my bedroom. I rushed up the stairs and into the room, searching the bedside table, the thickly padded bedroom chair, the ottoman and even the bathroom. No luck.
Then I ran downstairs and repeated all those steps, hoping I had missed something the first time around. Still nothing. Wait. Had I looked in my closet, where I had earlier pulled out my sandals? Taking flight, I charged back up the stairs and into the walk-in closet. No sight of the stupid wallet.
Overheated and gasping for air, I realized I was going to miss the dentist. I sat down in my bedroom chair, dialed his number and got his receptionist. Breathlessly I explained my predicament and that I would call for another time. She was sympathetic and told me how often that happens to her with her car keys. I wasn’t mollified. I had everything in my wallet: driver’s license, insurance card, credit cards, money.
I hung up and leaned back into the chair, only to feel a lump against my lower back. What had I left in the chair? Nothing, but there was something in the back pocket of my shorts.
There it was. I had forgotten I had back pockets in these shorts. My wallet was running around the house with me the entire time. Duh!
Prev
