Octogenarian Locomotion

Well into my ninth decade, I no longer sprint. Neither do I run. Or trot. Or jog. Or even lope. There is no necessity to stride. Instead, I prefer to walk, though frankly, I'm oftentimes content to stroll. Nor do I rush, hustle, hasten, zoom, or (heavens forfend!) scurry.

 

Nowadays, I do not jump, leap, vault, spring, hop, bound, dart, or skip. Nor do I caper, prance, frisk, or cavort. If I frolic, I do so only in my imagination. I do not gambol or hurtle. I do, however, sometimes saunter and on rare occasions, amble.

 

I do not, as a rule, climb. I may climb a set of stairs, with a banister or two in hand, but I no longer climb a ladder. I can envision no occasion in which I would be tempted to climb a wall or fence. If I must negotiate an upslope, I do not mount or scale or clamber or scamper or shinny. I ascend.

Comments

[Eve]

I hobble. I have, as a friend told me not too long ago, a hitch in my giddyup.

[Don Z. Block]

I sidle, shuffle, shamble, limp. Rising from the floor is usually a three- or four-step process that requires both arms. Stairs must be negotiated with a firm grip on the banister, one step at a time. The golden years? The what?