Bermuda Shorts #1

*"Bermuda Shorts" entries will be a space for shorter posts and amusing anecdotes

I've been feeling a little guilty about something. Dad's first dinner in RI was at Twin Oaks on the way home from the airport. His flight didn't land until 8:00 pm, so he was famished by the time we made it to the restaurant. When his steak dinner arrived, Donald dug right in; and on his second bite, he choked. I saw his eyes grow wide as he pointed to his throat... and I bolted from the table, searching frantically for my exit from the dining room. In my defense, as I was fleeing the scene I did call back, "Dani, help him!"

It's no great secret that I'm not the woman you want around in case of an emergency. My fight-or-flight response can be more accurately characterized as fright-and-flight. It was pretty crummy to realize that I wouldn't even stick around to help my own father! In the interest of full disclosure, I'm not the woman you want around when you're ailing in any way either. So, when dad's feet were aching tonight and he yelled to me from his room, "Diiii?! Come rub my feet," I immediately texted my sister to see if she'd come do it. "Not tonight," she responded.

Feeling bad about deserting Donald in his time of need at the restaurant, I gulped down the last of my wine and reluctantly agreed to rub arthritis cream into his swollen feet. "It's a bitch gettin' up in age, isn't it?" he said as I removed his socks for him. Pushing away my anxiety, I squeezed a line of white medicated cream onto his foot and hesitantly rubbed it in. I didn't even wear the gloves I had begged off of Tawn a few moments earlier. Now, if that ain't love...