I remember laughing with relief when I read C. E. Crimmins say, “You can never be too paranoid.” My basic timidity in the face of the Big Bad Wolf That Is the World is a trait I could only hope to outgrow, but it was reassuring to know if I didn’t that was good too. And sure enough, in many ways I have outgrown it, although feeling vulnerable is a nemesis for somewhat different reasons as I age.
In my youth vulnerability was chiefly related to sexual vulnerability. As a post-menopausal woman, however, I’m mostly relieved to feel sexual at all, and I fairly much assume I’m not regarded as such by (most of) the males I encounter. So it isn’t that I fear being sexually vulnerable as I contemplate aging, but more so that I may be seen as less able to defend myself. Well, mindfulness is the best protection, I tell myself, no matter what your age.
Today’s experience aptly typifies the difference between my youthful and maturing senses of vulnerability. It was a perfectly bright and lovely summer day, but on the final and most remote stretch of my walk with Karma the beloved dog I noted that approaching me about 200 yards ahead was a dark-haired adolescent male of the swaggering variety, casually swinging what appeared to be one of those lethally-long hedge clippers.
Uh-oh, I thought to myself, what if that’s what he’s going to use to mug me? It promptly occurred to me that in fact those giant hedge clippers would have been one of the only efficient ways to quickly relieve me of the purse, camera, leash, binoculars and portable water bottle slung across my chest like some poor pack mule’s burden. Hedge clippers were, actually a fortuitous choice of weapon, for him. Weapon? Do I really believe that? The conversation with myself continued as follows:
Okay, well, surely he sees Karma and is going to be a little wary of an assault himself. On the other hand, Karma’s off leash, and what if the kid isn’t a thug but is instead afraid of dogs? I don’t know. No, young guys aren’t usually afraid of anything. So maybe he is a mugger. Maybe when he reaches me I should just hand him everything to avoid any nicks in the jugular by the clippers. Really though. I don’t want to turn over my digital camera. I just took about fifty pictures of trees on my walk. I can’t imagine he’s going to have any interest in that. Why don’t I ever wear my glasses when I’m out walking? Uh-oh, he’s getting closer. I’d better think fast.
It was at that point I detected the presence of a cologne that preceded the would-be mugger like a court trumpeter and his Majesty. Hmm, I wondered. Would thugs really splash on their scent-du-jour as they mentally rehearsed their criminal modus operandi? Isn’t that like a one-item test to disprove they’re any kind of dangerous threat?
I pondered this just long enough to realize my own personal would-be felon had in fact come within reliable visual distance. It turned out he was not swinging any Samurai-like hedge clippers but… a skateboard. He was about fourteen and Karma amiably trotted up to greet him. Don’t worry, he’s friendly, I reassured him, as he walked obliviously past us.
Periodically I worry about the diminution of my senses. Certainly my eyes have taken a turn for the worse, requiring that I keep nine or ten reading glasses available at all times. I probably should be wearing my distance glasses all the time. And years of exercising to blasting music on headphones seems not to have done my hearing any good. Then there’s my sense of smell. For about six weeks I thought I had lost it entirely since there wasn’t a honeysuckle in sight I could catch a whiff of. I did manage to catch a sweet, though faint, bouquet of one quite fine honeysuckle blossom eventually, so perhaps that was just allergies before.
Still, what I am concluding from my experiences of late is that far more than being at risk from the world, I’m at risk from my own declining capacities. On the other hand, they amuse me no end.
P. S. In settling upon the metaphor of court trumpeter, see above, I was happily referred to the following page, filled with just the kind of information that thrills me endlessly. Pascal wrote something to the effect that he believes heaven must be a kind of library, and if that’s so, Google is heaven. If you, too, are of the inclination to believe so, you might enjoy the page, particularly if clarification about the difference between heralds and trumpeters interests you. Here it is.
