My ankles and feet swell when I stand for more than a few minutes. Much of the standing time is cooking or I’m out on the deck, cleaning it and the feeders, filling the feeders, and watering flowerboxes and Chrysanthemums.
Now that our weather has cooled, I can wear support hose. I gave in and decided to stop whining about swollen feet and ankles and wear the compression socks. Complaining wasn’t doing the job. I realized I didn’t have quite enough, so I ordered another set of three.
I got the new ones a day later. They went on easily and felt comfortable. I was delighted. At day’s end, it was time to remove them. A lot of huffing, puffing, pulling, rolling, then inching the socks low enough to remove, I got the right one off. I then tried to remove the other sock.
It wouldn’t move and seemed grafted to my left leg. I could push it down to my ankle, but I couldn’t move it down my foot. I couldn’t move any part of the foot. It wouldn’t move, roll, or inch past my heel. It seemed likely I would never be able to remove it without cutting it off.
In an act of sheer desperation, I detached Garry from the western he was watching and — since he wasn’t wearing his hearing aids — I conveyed with sign language that I needed help removing the sock. He thought I was kidding around. So, he tugged at it. It didn’t move.
He tugged at it harder. It still didn’t move. He sat up and dug in with both hands and full muscle — both arms. It wouldn’t go past my heel. Garry is strong. The man is a dedicated exerciser, but that sock had a will of its own. Eventually, Garry went full brute force on it and I got my foot back.
I put those socks in the laundry. I won’t even look at the other two (new) pairs. I will have to wait for a day when I’m up to the challenge.