Too Young To Feel This Damn Old...

“Sure, I’m for helping the elderly. I’m going to be old myself someday.”
-Lillian Carter, mother of President Jimmy Carter, at the age of 85

That was yesterday’s quote from my Wild Words From Wild Women quote of the day calendar. I felt like it was mocking me.

Why?

Because, at the somewhat tender age of 27, I already have the veins of a 90 year old woman. And thanks to whatever they injected me with last Friday, half of my left leg is freakishly white – like the skin of a manatee or something. It just isn’t normal!

But the worst thing about being in my current position is wearing the stupid support hose! I mean, c’mon! These things are horrible! Granted, they are temporary, but still! They are support hose! I had to go to a geriatric pharmacy to purchase them! And the boxes they come in? Yeah, COVERED in pictures of smiling, happy SENIOR CITIZENS! Bah!

The doctor gave me my first pair after the surgery last Friday. Oh, joy. It was right up there with my first pair of roller skates, let me tell you. But having only ONE pair of support hose (which I previously thought was one pair too many) led to two very different (and unexpected) problems over the weekend:

1. The pair he gave me only had one leg and a belt. At first I thought this was a good thing (my right leg got to be free!). However, I quickly discovered how horrible they really were (no second leg means the hose are constantly slipping down in the middle. “Uncomfortable” does nothing to describe how annoying this is).



2. I needed a second pair so I could wash the ones they gave me after the surgery. I’m required to wear the compression hose all the time for the first two weeks, so I needed a second set so I could wash/dry one pair while wearing the other.

So, in an attempt to “seem” supportive, Trevor drove me to buy another pair last Saturday. We might as well have gone to an amusement park. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh so hard. First, we pulled into the parking lot which was FULL of nothing but old people cars (Lincoln Town Cars, Buick Centuries, and late model Cadillacs, Oldsmobiles and Mercedes). Then, he got to look on and giggle as I was interrogated by an older woman who didn’t believe that someone MY AGE needed to be wearing support hose (Thanks, grandma!). Then, just when I thought I had the woman convinced that I was a legitimate wearer of support hose, I found myself being ushered into a small room where my ankles and thighs were measured (always pleasant). While this took place, Trevor was temporarily left unattended. So, when I FINALLY did emerge from the measuring room, I had to SEARCH for the boy. And where did I find him? Yeah, eyeing the canes, wheelchairs and other forms of assisted walking devices. Trevor had all but picked one out for me. He even offered to paint racing stripes on it. Jackhole. Finally, just to add insult to injury, I had to lay down almost $70 for my ONE PAIR of Jobst. I’m sorry, what?! After all that, I felt like they needed to pay me!

Of course, the stupid new pair of hose started to run the first time I wore them. And (surprise, surprise) you can’t return them once you’ve put them on. So, yesterday, I found myself in the staff bathroom with my coworker’s pink nail polish PAINTING the run in the hope that it wouldn’t get any worse. Because, quite frankly, I do not see the need to spend $70 more on something so inherently unattractive. Of course, smelling like nail polish for the rest of the day yesterday wasn’t so hot either, but whatever.

So, the moral of this story? That would be: Genetics suck. The end.