I am guilty of ageism - my own.

Typically I am vague about my age.  First reason?  I hate when people discriminate based on age and I suppose it has been a fear that people won't listen to what I have to say if they knew my precise age - especially online.

Well, that all stopped today.  You see, I have introduced my new best friend to the public, and I will introduce 'her' to you now:

Please meet 'Ms. Stumpy'.  Or, 'Stumpy' will do.

So, you may be wondering, "what the heck does Ms. Stumpy have to do with my age?"  Well, I am thirty-five years old.  Having a walker at thirty-five is a very eye-opening experience.  Let me pray tell:

My daughter thinks I am officially 'old.'  In fact, she is calling me an old lady and play acts with Stumpy by walking like her crooked mama does.  It makes me smile.  It adds levity to my 'situation.'  She came up with the name, Ms. Stumpy, although I have to admit my model is much less spiffy.  The model above deserves a cooler, sleeker name.  How about Janis?  Bueller?  Anyone?

Or, maybe, I should leave the naming of inanimate objects up to the expertise of my seven-year old. 

Now, you may be wondering, do people look at me funny?  Yes.  Yes, they do.  But, when you have been locked up inside a house without mobility for nearly three weeks, the looks are a relief compared to the walls which don't make faces back at you.  It confirms you are still alive and kicking.

For someone who tends to conceal her age unless asked outright, I have somehow gained some measure of authority with my new, sexy apparatus.  People tend to part like the sea when they see me coming.  I always felt so unsure of myself before; who knew what a walker could do for a woman?

Stumpy has afforded me my first signs of freedom from a body which is locked up in the physical hell of trauma recovery.  And you know what?  I am one grateful old lady.  Yesterday, I got out to the bank.  The teller called me ma'am.  That's a far cry from, "Oh God, we really don't want your unemployed asses opening an account here" look.  I'd say that's progress.

Next stop?  Tar-jay.  Yes, we say it the oh-so-cool way in our family.  Tar-jay morphs into Mecca when you are low on shampoo, need organizing supplies for the office, and the little one needs a toy.  (I make it a regular habit to succumb to bribery for good behavior; it's Spring Break for Christ's sake.)

It was my first experience with the motorized scooter.  Strike two on the old lady front.  When I was whipping down the aisles, I happened to glance down.  I was wearing a frumpy, polka-dot dress with a cardigan over it.  The cardigan isn't for warmth; it's to cover the holes in the seam of my worn-out but comfortable dress.  Add to that my orthotic Mary Jane shoes and I have to say, it is official.  If I am not old, I am indeed frumpy.

Yet, I still laugh.

I laugh because I'm silly looking.  I laugh because I didn't die.  I laugh because I have the opportunity to heal from horrendous trauma when so many never get their foot over the threshold of healing.  I laugh because I have to.  Otherwise, the weight of it will sink me. 

I like to float.

In fact, I think that is going to be the next docket on the agenda.  Now that my disability has come through (add a round of applause here), I am hoping to be able to find a way to afford a gym membership with a pool.  I crave movement.  There is nothing more frustrating then to be physically telling your leg, "left, left" and have it respond by lagging behind like a geisha with much less grace.  At least in the water, I won't fall down.

The truth is I feel light and airy and springy still this morning.  I reclaimed some freedom for myself, and if I have to look like an old lady doing it, I'm okay with that.

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Watch the aisles of your local Tar-jay; we scooter ladies are dangerous.