Everyone knows time speeds up as you get older. There’s a theory that this occurs because every unit of time is progressively smaller in relation to one’s lifespan already lived. For a five-year-old child the wait until their next birthday seems interminable – it’s approaching one fifth of their life lived to date. At 60 years old, a year is only 1/61st to 1/60th of a life lived.
Whyever it happens, as we get older we usually wish time would do us a favour and just slow down a bit. We tell ourselves to enjoy every moment, as the birthdays accelerate relentlessly towards us. Where have the last few years gone?… “You think it’s bad at 50?” exclaims my dad, “Wait til you’re 70!”.
So with a fractured limb, it seems somehow wrong to be wishing time away. How wicked at my time of life, when every leaking moment is so precious! But <whinge> everything sounds so far away: 2 weeks until the next X-ray; 4 weeks until the bones start to knit; 2 months until the splint can be removed; 3 months til you can drive again; 6 months to get back to running fitness; over a year to do weight-bearing exercise… And so on. The physio is going to drag on endlessly… </whinge>.
And yet, here’s where age-time-relativity (not a thing) kicks in: because with a broken arm, time is whizzing by. Since every single thing takes ages to complete with one damaged arm, before you know it, another day is over. Typing: one hand flying around the keypad, no matter how adroitly, is slow-going compared to two. More mistakes need to be corrected, some key combinations take a bit of working out to achieve. Unpacking the dishwasher one item at a time. Taking a shower…. Sheesh!
In fact I now wonder if that’s why time goes so fast for old folk. Because they can only fit a fraction of the tasks into one day that younger people can.
So I’ll simply take my time with everything. Hopefully I’ll be better in double-quick time!
A humerus tale 