Or – Remind me Dear, who are you again?
I was reading about a new condition they’ve discovered. First, if it’s a condition and they discovered it, it isn’t new. I wish they’d quit with the catchy phrases. Second, who are THEY? Has anyone figured that out yet?
Anyway, I was reading this article on a newly discovered condition that explains the onset of memory loss associated with middle age. I forget the name but it was really interesting. It talked about the body starting to slow down. Not huge amounts, but a little at a time. Personally I think that some mornings, the body says otherwise.
Its symptoms include memory lapses, small at first. Things like forgetting the coupons you clipped the night before or finding yourself not only walking into a room and forgetting why you’re there, but not remembering to walk into the room at all.
Eyesight was another. That thing on the floor looks a whole lot further away than it did before. The body sees how very far it has got to squat to pick it up and says no.
Let’s not forget the trips to the bathroom. I never spent enough time in there before to notice the cobwebs. I read whatever was around, but these days I can shoot through a novel in two days. Does this have to be?
According to this study, people begin to feel the effects of middle age as early as thirty-two. Don’t freak. Not everyone will even notice the changes. When I was thirty-two I didn’t notice a thing. I didn’t wear glasses. I didn’t get tired. I didn’t have to run to the ladies room every place I went. And I most certainly remembered why I was doing whatever I was doing. My hair was softer, my skin didn’t look like Walter Matheau’s after make up removal. I still had the flush of youth. Now blush, pinching and a smack on the face won’t raise that peachy glow. Getting to the bathroom on time does.
The other day I brought bags of groceries home from the store. My youngest asked if I’d remembered cereal. I poked around in the bags sure that I had picked up her favorite kind. I remembered the toilet paper (of course) but no cereal. I didn’t even remember her asking me to get some. It’s frustrating. I carefully make out a list and put it in my purse. Do I take my purse? No. I take keys, wallet and I’m damn lucky if I remember to change out of my pj’s. Cereal? Foolish mortal! Why would my busy brain concern itself with such trivial things?
My husband pointed something out the other day. It took him a few minutes to dance that dance around the prickly bush when he knows whatever he has to say to me is insulting or too blunt even for The Mouth to handle.
He pointed out that I never forget anything about my work so why was it I forgot to do the laundry. There it was. Blunt. To the Point. I sat thinking for a moment. Trying to remember the great come-back I’d heard last week. Once again, my sieve-like brain did not respond.
With dignity, I left the room on my way to get more coffee, only to have to come back for the mug. With greater dignity (verging on a huff) I left the room again, coffee mug in hand. When I returned, he just looked at me. Like he expected a response. HA! Could I remember what he’d said that required one?
Think, Think, Think (my little mental Winnie the Pooh said). Oh yes, I never forgot stuff about work. I forgot the laundry. I fervently hoped this wouldn’t turn into an “issue”. It wasn’t like I forgot to have the cat spayed or anything. I quickly wrote a note to myself to call the vet after I found homes for the kittens.
I sat down (with dignity) at the computer. I stared at the screen a long moment, trying to recall what it was I remembered needed doing while I was pouring coffee. Damn. With a little less dignity I got up, strolled innocently to the kitchen, stood by the coffee maker and waited. Oh yes. Got it. Back to the computer I go, my husband watching me, knowing exactly what was going on.
I spent a moment organizing my thoughts, reminiscent of spaghetti in a strainer. A few strands seep through, but the majority maintain their tangled narcoleptic mettle.
Who was I kidding. He was right. My mental priorities were messed up. I needed to start keeping better track. The man did not deserve crusty socks. Well, not most days. I swore to myself I’d do better.
I began listing things I needed to get done. Buying Ginko Biloba was number one. I needed help. Whether I had what my dear spouse referred to as “selective memory” or not, Ginko wouldn’t hurt.
Half way through this list making, I paused and pondered the whole middle-age memory in the toilet routine. I wondered just what kind of omnipotent Creators might find this funny. Was this some kind of joke?
It stands to reason that if humans come equipped with a sense of humor (well, most do anyway) then the gods must have one as well. They probably had a great old time coming up with that one. All they had to do was peek in at my house, the fruits of their labor spread out like a panoramic side show.
This middle age thing will probably keep me baffled until sometime just before they hand me my shiny new walker. I’ll have it figured out when it’s over. Standard routine. We become experts too late. But hopefully, if all goes well, I’ll get the laundry done, find those damn coupons and remember what the hell I was supposed write for work.
All in one day.
Copyright – J. Thompson