Memory is a funny thing for people. Especially old people. Or not funny.
It’s not at all funny for me, not that I’m old. But we hear people (I hear people, or at least voices) all the time (some of the time) saying their short-term memory is bad and getting worse. The old saying: “I remember what I wore to my Senior Prom but I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.”
I don’t consider not remembering yesterday’s lunch (brandy, codeine-enhanced cough syrup, strawberry flavored Ensure) something to fret over. What I worry about is not remembering if the previous sentence had to do with not remembering stuff, but whether I’d started writing this column in the first place and if it’s not about Christmas.
This has nothing to do with my getting old by the way, nor with cognitive decline or conservatorship or guardians ad litem, which is a Latin phrase for “Sharp as a Tack” aka mental acuity of President Cabbage.
But for me and for now I have memory defects along the lines of not sure if it’s raining outside while staring out the window. Or coming home and not knowing if the woman in the dining room is my wife or if I should hurry her out the back door because my wife will be coming home any minute.
Or putting my wallet where it belongs and immediately not knowing where my wallet is, including Walmart, or on the roof of my car before I left Walmart. Or in my other jacket pocket. Or at your house. Or if I went to Walmart and remembered to bring my wallet.
This is a discouraging and time-consuming thing. Things.
Have you tried to write or talk about stuff you don’t remember? It’s surprisingly easy at my age.
A good example is my winning the American League batting championship in 1983, a once-in-a-lifetime-event of which I have no memory. I can’t even tell you where I put my big gold trophy or the photos of me standing next to Mike Trout.
Or the time I hiked the Appalachian Trail with Paris Hilton, all my warm memories vanished like yesterday’s forgotten lunch of cough syrup and brandy.
And if I have no recollection of this, how am I supposed to remember the Spanish I took in eighth grade? Yet not a single palabra comes to mind, also with French, which I never studied but by now what’s the difference? You tell me. Or don’t. I won’t remember.
Which brings us, if I remember to finish this sentence, to a family joke that has to do with those li’l rascal tykes of mine who wrapped up and gave dad the same gift sweater three Christmases in a row.
Ho ho ho.
Last week was our next Christmas in six months. So now I think I can remember things that will happen in the future. Maybe I’m turning an evolutionary corner, already able to see right through the green-and-red foil wrapping paper to the sweater laying under the tree on Christmas morning tomorrow.
Happy New Year, Peace on Earth. Let’s go Brandon.
SOFT MUSICAL SEGUE
Now we’re at my doctor’s office, and he is patiently explaining results of my X-ray.
“What you have here is minor arthritis in your right hip. It looks like-—“
“-—Wrong, twice!” I shouted politely. “One, my hip hurts like l got whacked with a sledgehammer, and Two, it can’t be arthritis because arthritis is what old people get and I’m not old.
“Arthritis bah! Dude, I went to Woodstock!”
But I suppose I can still lead a happy, rewarding life, even with the misery and embarrassment of a deep well of pain in my right buttock region that’s the result of something only boring old people get. Wish I had something cool like a bullet wound or a motorcycle wreck. But no: Arthur-stinking-ritis.
Bright side. I’ll be able to trim my bucket list to a tidy two or three items, none involving anything more than eating and drinking.
For starters, no more running marathons, no climbing mountains or any of that parachute stuff. No more three-day bicycle trips across Canada, and my rugby career is officially over. Never again will I load stuff into a pickup truck, clean out a garage, stack firewood or hoist myself into a backyard hammock without assistance. No feeling shame when I tell strangers to fetch me a beer. Maybe someone will drive me around.
Will arthritis get me disability benefits, like free rent or meals on wheels? Cool, powerful painkillers? In-home healthcare workers? One of those Free Parking gizmos that cripples put on the rearview mirror?
I think I might be able to get used to this arthritis stuff.
King?? I thought you said he was Hitler, said the confused fellow who authors these wonderful columns. Also, Dems are now on record as opposed to ending government fraud, waste a, and cheering for rioters breaking stuff while waving foreign flags. Open Borders, Yes! TWK has no comment
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