I ask because, despite being a reasonable 34 inch waist with not too much of a bulge above, I find I can only just manage the operation myself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed I have to pull my leg tight up into my tummy and stretch my arms to their limit in order to flip the sock opening over my toes.
And if I don’t manage it first flip I have to put my foot back on the floor so I can take a breath or two before trying again.
It’s all part of the ageing process of course. I have the same trouble with shoe laces.
Not just socks
Donning my pants is another challenge. I read somewhere that doctors judge their patient’s agility by whether they sit down to put on their underwear or stand up.
So, as a matter of pride, I always perform the function on my feet.
But this can be dangerous. I frequently find myself bent over, swaying precariously on one foot whilst the other is inextricably entangled in a garment that obviously resents me; and I have to make the instantaneous decision whether the moment has come to let go and grab for something to hold on to or whether I can risk struggling just a moment more.
The list goes on
Jeans present a similar problem. I usually manage to insert one leg. But the other jean leg invariably folds itself at that point into a sort of three-fold pleat, so that I once again find myself gently falling sideways as I seek desperately for a handhold.
I have come to believe that many of those reports in the media of elderly folk falling and laying helpless till help arrives are not the result of tripping, or stumbling on the stairs or suffering a heart attack, but of someone having a quarrel with their knickers.
Far too fiddly
Next on the hazard list for ageing bachelors come shirt buttons.
If they’re not missing entirely they tend to take up positions that bear no relation to their matching hole.
So l cunningly evade that struggle by not having any. My upper attire consists these days of a tee-shirt – usually displaying some slogan such as ‘Beadles Old Oak. Guaranteed to have Bits’, or ‘Penny-Farthing World Rally 1897’ – and one of three sweat shirts.
One sweat – my indoor one – has a special panel at the front which acquires food particles within the hour of donning it, even though I haven’t had anything to eat yet. The second has a sleeve liberally daubed with paint, and I wear it to the shops to show I am not yet beyond DIY. The third is my posh one, used for visits to sophisticated places like Newport or Ryde. The stains on that are quite difficult to see.
So, in one way or another I have so far fought off my increasing creakiness.
Except for socks. I’m still worried about them.
Image: Mr Thomas under CC BY-SA 2.0
