How many times have you heard someone say he’s having a “senior moment” and you know he’s not talking about his high school graduation?
Senior Moment is the catch phrase for those memory lapses that taunt us more frequently after we can’t even claim to be middled-aged anymore.
These periods come upon us at odd times— when we’re awake, for instance. I have experienced a few senior moments myself lately, though I’m only a bit over 39.
I found myself in the laundry room the other day without any idea of why I was there. I looked into the dryer, hoping to discover a clue. It was empty, so I hadn’t come in to get towels. The dogfood sack was open. Maybe I had come in to get the dogs’ supper? They looked hungry so I fed them.
When they winked at each other over their full bowls, I realized that these might have been the third or fourth bowls of food I had dished out that day.
When I do wash clothes, I can’t remember whether I’ve put laundry detergent in the washing machine, so I have to stand there until I see suds. Or don’t see suds, as the case may be.
On the rare occasions when I cook, I can’t remember whether I’ve put the pecans in the pecan pie, so I keep opening the oven and poking the pie to see what comes up. If the filling looks too smooth, I just throw in a handful of pecans and hope nobody notices they’re still raw.
I can’t remember to take my calcium, and I can’t remember when I have taken it. Is that bottle on the counter because I just took a tablet, or because I’m supposed to take one now? Can you overdose on calcium? I used to know that, but I can’t remember.
Social encounters have also begun to tax my memory. At first I couldn’t remember last names. Then I couldn’t remember first names. Then the face wouldn’t come to mind when I heard a familiar name.
Now, even if you re-introduce yourself, I sometimes can’t recall that we’ve already met, which accounts for the perfectly blank but friendly stare I may give you. Soon, I won’t even remember why we’re having this discussion about who you are.
In a conversation, the other person sometimes finishes what she has to say and looks expectantly at me. At this point, I find my mouth open, but I don’t recall what I was going to say. Or whether I was going to say anything — maybe I was about to bite a cookie?
Or maybe I was about to yawn. No, that would be rude, and my friend is looking at me as if it’s my turn to say something. Not a problem. I just say, “But to change the subject, how ‘bout them Rebels?”
For awhile I thought that yellow sticky notes would be my salvation. I would stick the little sheets around the house to remind myself of what to do. Only sometimes I forgot where I stuck the notes.
And when I saw “Give dogs heartworm pills today” I couldn’t recall whether “today” was actually that day or the next. I sometimes put the notes out in advance, you see, in case I forget to do it on the right day. If you’ve ever had a Senior Moment, you know what I’m talking about.
My doctor assures me that it isn’t Alzheimer’s. Yet. So why do my friends and I have these memory lapses?
I think the problem lies in all the memory work our generation had to do. We had to memorize poems, Bible verses, Scout oaths, the Preamble to the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address and the calorie count of every food on Weight Watchers. We didn’t have calculators or laptops, so we actually had to memorize the multiplication tables, our spelling words and the periodic table.
I can still say the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales in pretty decent Middle English, but I can’t remember whether I’ve turned off the iron.
Maybe we’ve just overloaded our memory space in the Cloud.
My motto is “if you can’t fix it, enjoy it like it is.” I’ve learned to enjoy forgetting some things I didn’t want to remember in the first place.
I’ll enjoy not remembering my age or that I have a birthday coming up (or did it already go by?) I’ll enjoy not remembering how much our insurance is going up or what I have left in my account.
A few nights ago I was eating and I couldn’t bring to mind how many calories my Weight Watchers chart says are in homemade chili with cheese on top, nor could I recall the number of fat grams in that ice cream, cake and strawberries. So I ate a delightful meal without guilt. Now I’m trying to forget what the scale said this morning when I hopped on it.
I can see real benefits to forgetting who made me mad 20 years ago. Hopefully, there will come a time when I can’t remember what to worry about.
So I’m actually looking forward to that next uh... uh... now what kind of moment were we talking about? I can’t seem to remember its name.
