Handicap Tag

“What a consummate joy,” I said to myself; “to no longer hafta park in the hinterlands, and hike 50 miles to the grocery, uphill both comin’ and goin’, barefoot in snow eight inches deep.”
Yrs Trly has finally deigned to get a handicap tag, illustrated at left.
I had authorization the past three months, but was unable to get to my Town Hall.
It’s not like I desperately needed it.
I had a complete knee replacement, so am hobbling a little. I also feel somewhat clumsy.
If I parked far from the store, I could do the hike. No cane yet.
It seems like anyone and everyone can get a handicap tag.
Supposedly you hafta be disabled.
I don’t feel disabled. I don’t rocket about like these young millennials. But I get around.
Ask me to do a long hike and I don’t look forward to it. A few years ago I attended an airshow of antique airplanes.
I had to hike all over the airport, miles at a time.
Sun beating down; it was beastly hot.
That was before my knee replacement. Bone-on-bone, limping.
I suppose it’s not wanting to get old.
I was in no big hurry to get that handicap tag.

• I’m 72.