: hallelujah, I’ve risen :

If that smacks of blasphemy or egomania, I apologize, because I was aiming for disbelief. You see, late last week I rose from the toilet like a phoenix. I did. I rose right up, under my own power, with no aid or assistance from the dreaded and humiliating toilet arms. 

I freely admit a toilet isn’t as dramatic as ashes, but it was a pretty magical moment, nevertheless. Sort of my own pyrrhic victory — over gravity and aging and stoopidity. Breaking a hip, it turns out, isn’t a quick recovery. It’s a lo-o-o-ong, arduous process — giving you plenty of time to languish in regret and despair. 

And it starts with the wait for the ambulance. That’s when you remember all the horror stories you’ve heard — about broken bones being the beginning of the end, about becoming housebound, and weak, and fearful. I tried to think of something else, something happier, and what popped to mind? The melodramatic ‘I’ve fallen and can’t get up’ commercials. Somehow they weren’t as funny as they used to be. 

Long story short, you can overcome almost anything you put your mind to. I haven’t tried every injury and calamity, of course, and I’m not eager to test my theory, but it’s important to know: you can rise again. Eventually and vigorously. The vigorously is still a little ways off, but I consider the rising — although wobbly and lurching — a fairly impressive accomplishment. 

Now the trick is to stay on my feet. However, winter will return with its deadly hazards, so I’ve spent lots of time worrying and coming up with new ways to avoid the dangers. Such as don’t go outside from October to May. Or wear protective equipment, like hockey players do. Or, and this is my favorite, invent heated shoes. They’ll melt the frozen ground with every step. I shall name them Hot Foots, make billions of dollars, and move to the Equator where it never snows or freezes and live happily ever after.

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