Closer to the Ground

Somewhere in my sixties, the ground started coming up to meet me. Unfortunately, parts of me were heading down to meet it—an inch here, a sister there. Gravity had plans.

My inseam used to be 27. Now it’s 26. I didn’t feel getting shorter. One year, my jeans started dragging, and the tailor confirmed it with that yellow measuring tape. Nobody tells you where the inch goes. Then the bone density technician did. My spine is compressing.

The sisters went the same direction. My bras had developed a fabric surplus. Nothing was wrong with them. The sisters had shrunk, and what was left had moved south. I went shopping for something that would account for both developments.

There isn’t one. Some bras are engineered to hold up an overpass. Others assume everything is still where it was in 1985. I came home with a bralette. With foam inserts. NEVER in my life did I need foam inserts.

I am 68 years old, and my underwear now has removable parts. I check the laundry to make sure I got all the parts.

I’ve had both knees replaced. I use sign language with airport security; I catch the screener’s eye, point to my knees. They nod their heads toward the glass tube. I place my feet on the yellow markings, raise my arms over my head for a full-body scan. I wish medical companies and TSA could work out a deal. Two for one. MRI and security check. No knives or tumors.

My body now has options about getting on the floor.

I used to do all my organizing down there. Photos, files, purse cleanouts, Christmas decorations, whatever needed sorting got spread across the rug. I sat in the middle of it for hours. I could get up to answer the phone, make a sandwich, or chase the dog without thinking twice.

Now it all goes on the dining room table. Getting down is harder. Getting up requires planning. You find yourself on your hands and knees, searching for something sturdy to pull yourself up with, and realize the coffee table wasn’t designed for this. (PS, I always have a chair handy for assistance.)

So, I’ve started practicing. Getting off the floor, on purpose. Someday I may end up down there without planning to, and I’d like to be the one who gets me back up, preferably without an audience.

I drive a small SUV. People assume it’s about cargo space. It’s about my butt.

The seat sits at exactly the height my butt already is. I don’t climb up into it like a pickup, and I don’t drop down into it like a sports car. I back up and sit, as I would on a kitchen stool. A vehicle that meets you halfway is worth whatever they’re charging.

And whoever put a handle above the door- I don’t know your name, but I think of you every time I get in. I hope you received a substantial bonus.

Then there’s walking. We used to walk without thinking about the sidewalk. Now I study every crack, root, and uneven slab as if it owes me money. I could walk past someone I know and never recognize them above the ankles.

Those concrete bumpers at the front of parking spaces deserve special attention. They’re designed to stop a two-ton automobile but will take down a woman carrying groceries without hesitation. I’m not saying how I know this.

I’m an inch shorter, the sisters have relocated, and I spend my walks watching for something determined to put me on the pavement. Gravity has been making decisions about my body without consulting me for years. It’s already claimed enough territory. I’m not giving it the whole woman.