It is hard to stomp out of the room in a full-blown snit when you are wearing sheepskin-lined bedroom slippers.
Methinks my stomping days are pretty much a done deal. Even Hugo, my trusty walker, has lost his will to stomp meaningfully. He rolls, he twirls, he affords me a seat on the way to the mailbox—but snits and stomps are truly not his forte. Not today. Probably never, truth be told.
Let me back up a bit to give you the proper perspective on this topic.
In their infinite wisdom, the lords of both my castles decided it was easier to remodel said edifices than scrape me off the floor. So they found spots to park my cane and Hugo. They renovated bathrooms, built access ramps, and provided sturdy handrails to get me from tower to great room. Safely.
In the process these lords discovered the world of soft close. Cabinets, lockers, and drawers now whisper shut with nary a creak or a squeak. Nice for sleeping babies or insomniacs.
However, if one is in a snit, a pique, or just plain mad, being able to slam a door or stalk from a room is so satisfying. Therapeutic, even. To be effective, anger must be expressed.
Anger has little space in the life of a cosseted octogenarian. But some things are ridiculous and worthy of our indignation and disdain. There are incidents that merit our collective foot stomping, that need and should be scorned. Our displeasure should be evident.
In a soft-close world how do we make our sneer heard? Our contempt felt? Our foot stomping relevant?
Make no mistake—at my age none yet have had the audacity to be “in my face.” Soft gloves and soft words are the norm. “But, Mom, . . . ,” starts the usual diffuser of my parental disgust.
Still, stomping in a fit from the room, slamming doors with gusto as we go, must remain our right. Even if our collective feet are now encased in cozy sheepskin-lined bedroom slippers.