I’d love to know who coined the term “senior moments.” It has become a household phrase in my world, and I’m only in my 50s (fifty-thirteen to be exact).
Personally, I’d love to have a senior moment in the singular sense, but I’m more likely to experience “senior days” and sometimes even “senior weeks!” I was told by a medical professional not to worry about these mental glitches – everyone has them. No problem.
It’s when you don’t know it’s happening that you need to worry, he said. That makes no sense. If we don’t know it’s happening, why would we worry in the first place?
As I cruised the toy section of Wal-Mart, looking for a board game to take on my vacation, I spotted a sinister little game called “Senior Moments.” No thank you very much, I don’t need a board game to remind me my brain is taking vacations without me.
Instead, I wheeled my cart over to the pill aisle and purchased a bottle of Ginkgo Biloba which claims to improve the memory. My aunt Emma said it has helped her enormously. “I haven’t forgotten ole what’s his name’s name since I started taking them,” she said proudly.
Then, as I was checking out with my economy bottle of memory pills, I swiped my debit card. The machine asked me for my PIN, which I have entered hundreds of times before.
I drew a blank and the clerk eyed me suspiciously as though I was a identity thief, masquerading in a Mississippi State tee-shirt and sporting a fresh coat of “tan in a bottle.” The PIN finally came to me, but she never took her eyes off me until I had left the building.
Even more troubling, on Sunday, as I dressed for church, I discovered I have lost my favorite skirt, the one that makes me look 10 pounds thinner. Now where could I have left it, and how did I get home without it? The possibilities have me worried.
No matter what we do, our brains normally shrink as we age — a man’s faster than a woman’s, according to leading gerontologists. Finally, we women cop a break! Even so, I figure my brain is about the size of a Brussels sprout by now, when it should be as large as an eggplant.
All the information is still in there, it’s just all jammed into that teeny space and key information, like my ex-husband’s name and what year it is, are painfully slow in making the way to my mouth.
I wrote a check the other day and dated it June 25, 1910. Hey! Ease up, I was only off by two numbers.