“That’s some kinda limp you got there.”
I was walking (or at least doing my best impersonation of walking) down a wood paneled corridor to my physical therapy appointment this morning when an old man heading in the opposite direction noticed I wasn’t operating at 100%. He wore Velcro sneakers, sweatpants and a dark sweatshirt under a winter jacket. The dry skin under his grey stubble sifted down to the neck of his sweatshirt and clung there like a dusting of Parmesan cheese on a black dinner plate. He used one hand to hold the corridor wall for support, while the other one gripped an adjustable cane with four non-slip rubber nubs on the bottom of it for added support. He was easily in his late eighties, and every movement he made was so slow and weighted that it seemed like he was walking underwater.