Cream

A couple of decades ago, having lunch in Canada's first MacDonald's restaurant (in Calgary), I sat at a table near to a quite elderly couple. Some years ago, especially, I used to note that older people seemed awkward eating fast food, as if the rules of eating they were accustomed to didn't fit with Styrofoam boxes (as MacDonald's burgers used to come nestled in) and cardboard envelopes (for fries,) or with ketchup in tiny, sealed, plastic pouches.

Or coffee creamers with peel away lids, meant to be leveraged open with a miniscule tab on the edge of the creamer's paper thin lid.

Because of that awkwardness with junk food and because of profoundly arthritic hands (his and hers), I had been watching the couple in Calgary. They shared some fries and each had coffee, or rather wanted coffee. He struggled at length to get the lids off the coffee cups without washing himself and his wife in hot liquid. And even now my chest flutters and my stomach turns at the sadness of the moment. But it became more upsetting for them as both tried to open the damn creamers, without success. They were both very embarrassed by the impasse, their body language, and their looks to each other, made that most clear.

Despite fearing I would only further worsen the situation, I offered to help: "Those damn creamers," I said. "Would you like some help?" And I then, not quickly, peeled back the lid on four of the little creamer cups, asked how many each wanted and poured them into their cups according to the specific instructions in their answers.

He and she both became apologetic in their embarrassment which I dismissed (for what the hell did they have to be ashamed about? Nothing) with some comment about the world ignoring how our abilities change with time and suggesting that the least the couple was owed (given their age and contributions to society)was to be able to easily get cream into their coffee. She called me "dear."

For whatever reason, I think of that moment often and always with a flick of pain in my chest at how something so mundane, so simple, became an insurmountable, incredibly frustrating obstacle for that couple and their tangled, knotted, cold-face-of-the-mountain cedar--branches hands.

Last night at the gym an old guy and I were the only people in the change room. As I stripped to get ready to head off to the shower I noted that he hadn't moved in the few minutes I’d been getting ready. It was then I realized his pants were only partially up his legs, the waistband under his thighs, where he sat on them; his bare, ample, white-fleshed ass pushed horizontally under his weight, revealing his physical surrender into the buttress of the bench. His head was lowered, dropped into his supporting hands. I hesitated asking him if he was okay (heart attack or exhaustion from working out?) but delayed my shower, pretended to be busy with something so I could keep an eye on him.

Thankfully, in short order he raised his head to height, without assistance from his hands, got his underwear in place, then his pants, and his belt fastened. Each stage took obvious concentration and a bit of exertion, but when finished he gave a bit of a stomp, grabbed his coat and left.

I’ve seen many guys of all ages unable to get up off the locker room bench on occasion – held there by that “can’t lift my arms, nagging question of ‘am I gonna puke,’ I just need to go coma for a moment” feeling of having stressed one’s self into the red zone of exercise exhaustion. That which makes us nearly hurl our diced carrots (vomit) in public makes us stronger…

As an aside, I read this week about research findings which suggest that while older people can’t, in exercise, match the young in terms of strength, speed or muscle-growth rates, the older exert themselves with greater efficiency – in this study’s particular finding’s case, it was found that older people use less oxygen to complete the same physical task undertaken by the younger exerciser.

So, I was glad I didn’t offer the old fellow in the gym assistance, as his moment was actually one of victory – again he’d faced his challenge at the gym and won. Now, perhaps, if only an aging engineer somewhere would more boldly lead the fight to make certain that product design doesn’t keep the old from enjoying a coffee break.