A couple of weeks ago, I bought my low-vision dad a box of 36 black Sharpie pens for Father’s Day.
Strategically, I put a couple of them in each room of the house (sometimes multiple placements per room) where he was likely to want to write something down, sort of like when you hide foil Easter eggs in plain sight so that very small children don’t get too frustrated trying to find them, delighting with the pleasure of discovery when they do.
These days, his fingers are swollen and painful so we practiced removing the cap and clicking it back on several times.
I then placed the box with the remainder of the pens on the coffee table down in the basement, the one that sits in front of a movie-theatre sized TV screen, alongside a row of brand new lined notebooks awaiting large-font, Sharpie updates of the stock exchange, piles of documents my father can no longer read and an unopened bag of Miss Vickie’s Jalapeño chips.
I stopped by with their groceries this week-end, prompting my father to leave the comfort of his lazy-boy office chair, climb two flights of stairs, cane in one hand, ice pack wrapped around the other. He then settled in his living room chair and waited for me to log into his online investment account.
“By the way,”, he said, “where’s that black marker you got me the other day?”
Cue emoji facepalm.
In other getting nowhere news, I completed a full week of this health and fitness program app that has me logging in how much I weigh, what I eat, how much water I drink and how many steps I take daily.
How did I do? Well, after a week of religious accountability and logging in, of climbing that great hill of lifestyle change in pursuit of the ever-elusive “I have arrived and am here to stay” affirmation, I am at the exact same place I started.
‘Cause let’s be honest, the only measurement that really counts in a program that asks you to weigh yourself every day, is weight loss.
Never fear, I am not giving up. Wipe the slate clean and start again, new Sharpie in hand.
bogeyandruby 