Moving on

I am now officially old.

As of this morning, I am the possessor of a permanent handicap parking pass. After months of back pain, physical therapy, epidural and facet joint cortisone injections, and still finding it painful to stand or walk any distance, I asked my doctor for an authorization for handicap parking. I had in mind the 6 month temporary permit that I had following my back surgery four years ago. I plan to get better, see. But he said, "Sure, and I'll make it permanent."

Even at 77, and on the eve of my 60th high school class reunion this weekend, I haven't quite accepted the obvious "old man" image until now. I've come close lately, especially when I walk past a storefront and catch a sideways glimpse of myself in the reflective glass and see this creature with a cane and hunched shoulders and bent-forward posture. People have begun to open doors for me; order-takers at fast food restaurants ask if I need help with my tray.

Anyway, it's not so easy to get this prized blue tag that hangs from your rear view mirror. This particular doctor has an office in Johns Creek (about 20 miles). He filled out the form and said, "you'll have to get this notarized." OK, I get my signature notarized at my local bank branch all the time. Only after I left did I realize: it's his signature that has to be notarized, not mine. How do you do that at the bank?

Well, my administrative assistant at Emory is a notary, and as I left yesterday and told her I was going to ask my doctor for a handicap parking permit, she -- having had experience with such -- said, "I'll be happy to notarize it for you." So I drove from Johns Creek to Emory (another 25 miles), got the form notarized, then drove back past my home in Sandy Springs and half-way to Roswell to the Dept. of Motor Vehicles. Parked as close to the building as I could find a place (they also give drivers' licenses there, so it was crowded). Gazed enviously at the handicap parking spaces that I would soon be eligible for. Turns out they had moved the office to the other side of the building -- which I had just walked past, begrudging every step. So now I had to retrace those painful steps almost back to where my car was parked.

Finally, in the correct office, I was able to sit down while waiting -- and within a relatively short time, for a government service office, I walked out clutching my cane in one hand and my cherished blue hang-tag in the other.

Now, I am officially old.

Ralph