I turned 65 yesterday. That makes me a senior citizen. If you don’t believe me, I can prove it to you.
It’s midday of a weekday and the doorbell rings. I’m expecting a delivery, so I grab my house keys. I grab my keys because yesterday, in the midst of a delivery, I locked myself out of the house.
I hurry down the stairs. I don’t run because I’m afraid I’ll fall and break my hip. A broken hip, for senior citizens, triggers a precipitous process known as “The Dwindles.”
Inside the front door, I gather the mail from the floor so I don’t slip on a glossy circular. I place the stack on the first step and try to remember not to slip on it and break my hip on my way back upstairs.
I open the front door and, as it’s taken me so long to get there, whoever rang the bell has left. I move into my Saturday Night Fever posture, extend one foot and slide it left and right across the porch, sweeping for packages.
Then I hear the diesel engine idling and the man shouting, “Hey, mister! It’s behind you, leaning against the railing.” The delivery man knows I’m blind; I told him yesterday when he helped me find the hidden set of keys we keep in case somebody locks themselves out of the house.
“You OK to get back inside?” he asks.
I give him the thumbs up, then hold my package aloft—1000 dog poop bags in teal color. Teal is one of those modern shades that came along after I lost my eyesight. I wouldn’t know it from mauve or taupe, but I’m sure I will be ultra-stylish as I bend over to pick up after Randy. A stylish senior, yes, but will I be able to straighten up again?