If You Can’t Beat ‘Em Scoot ‘Em

 

                       I can’t believe I posted this. No humility.

“.   -What the hell did you do that for?” Is not something I usually say at one of the happiest places on earth. Yet there I was on my last trip to Universal Studios in Orlando, saying it to my wife. Because on the second morning, in front of my kids and grandkids, she committed a small but unforgivable act of betrayal, one that stomped my dignity flat. She ordered me an electric scooter.  

    Yes, I arrived with a bum right knee. Yes, I walked about eight miles the first day that felt like the Bataan Death March. Yes, I was downing ibuprofen like peanut M&Ms. 

    But still, an electric scooter is crossing a big line. I considered that thing a rolling obituary notice. In my mind, it’s saying to  world, “Yes, I have all my affairs in order.”   

    I’m not in denial about getting older. I’ve made several concessions to Father Time. I quit doing regular yoga because every time I went to the class, something new snapped, crackled, and popped. I called it twist and shout. These days it’s  chair yoga for me. I have begun playing golf from the “super senior” tees which are so short my younger buddies refer to them as the “tombstone tees”.  I swapped power walking for water aerobics, which is easier on my aging joints, but hard on my pride.  Am I too old to even walk?

    However, after about an hour of complaining, denying, and downing another round of anti-inflammatories, I reached a scary place, a place I had never been before.  My physical pain finally outweighed my conceit. 

    So at last, I grudgingly took the keys from my wife, climbed aboard the scooter like an old man mounting a tractor, turned on the ignition, and sat there in silence.  

    Almost immediately,  justification kicked in. 

  “Wow, this seat is soft,” I thought. 

 “It’s kinda like a golf cart, and I use those.”

  “And nobody knows me down here.”

   “And she’s already spent the money, so I really don’t have a choice.”

    The process was complete. “I’ll use the stupid thing,” I said.   

  When I rode the scooter down the elevator and out to the path leading from our hotel to the front gate, my head was on a swivel.  “Please Lord, don’t let anyone from home see me,” I thought. I felt like a villain in a low-budget James Bond movie. All I needed was a cat in my lap, a British accent, and a plan for world domination. Just call me Goldsenior. 

    Quietly, quickly, and smoothly, the scooter took me to the front gate.  Honestly, it was kind of fun.  I even raced my wife’s scooter and whipped her easily. And my knee brace gave me enough credibility that everyone probably thought I had surgery instead of just surrendering. 

    Once I got inside the park, things got a bit dicey because of the crowds. It reminded me of  Black Friday at a shopping mall.  I had to pay close attention because there were people constantly cutting in front of me.  If I had only thought to bring an air horn. They must have  thought I was just another pedestrian, which I was not. Unlike my wife, who has no problem plowing through the groups that get in her way, I eventually learned the trick; match the speed of the walkers. Once I did that I blended into the crowd. Soon I became just another pedestrian who happened to be on an electric scooter. 

    When we got to the rides, the attendants would instruct us where to park, and asked us if we needed a wheelchair. My wife always eagerly accepted their offer;  however, I firmly declined. 

    One big line was enough to cross in a week. 

    A little while later, my six year old granddaughter said her legs were tired, and asked if she could ride with me.  I would never say no to such a pretty hitchhiker. So, for the next three days, I had a passenger. 

    And let me tell you something. It’s impossible to blend into a crowd with a scooter when there’s a little girl riding with you who’s waving at everyone like she’s in the Rose Bowl parade. 

You just have to roll with it.