I saw my neurologist the other day after physical therapy. He glanced at my baggy, slightly torn jeans and asked pointedly, “What kind of look is this? Are you a hippie or something?” I chose not to dignify the question, though I do enjoy provoking him. The doc does not know the real me. I will share a well kept secret. I am a fashion forward kind of guy. Not everyone will buy that. Meredith will scoff. But I suspect I will make the cover of Women’s Wear Daily or more appropriately, Gentleman’s Quarterly soon. Actually, a colleague once suggested that Emmett Kelly was my tailor.
And now the final touch, the stuff of runway raves. My pulmonologist prescribed compression socks to deal with leg veins weakened by the blood clot. Compression socks, they are called. Or maybe stockings. I don’t know. Then he gave me a prescription. A prescription? For fashionable footwear? Damn. I have been buying natty socks for years. No one ever asked for script. Whatever. These new socks will go nicely with my bowling shoes. This colorful legwear makes me want to play shuffleboard with the other octogenarians in the neighborhood.
Yes. I understand how functional these tight socks are. No letters from doctors, please. I just like that they are colorful. I am going for black. By reputation, they are almost impossible to get on. With a weakened right hand, it will be a challenge. I hesitate to ask Meredith for help. She is going to be jealous of my new look. I will get those socks on if I have to use pliers and leave them on all the time.
We do what we have to. We all know that. Maybe I will wear them over my ears to support better hearing.