Forgetful? Forget About It

The older I get, the more forgetful I become. I try to trick myself into remembering things, but sometimes the senior moment wins out.

I sing in a chorus and just performed two concerts this past weekend.  Some of the words rolled off my tongue, and others would not come out. It’s been four months of rehearsals, and I am still stuck on some of the words. No, we don’t use our music. It used to be easier.

I write everything down. I hang notes on my front door. That way I will be reminded when my eye exam is scheduled for. When I was taking Sis to all of her appointments, the front door was covered with post-it notes.

My refrigerator popped its water line and leaked all over the kitchen hardwood two weeks ago. I called Farmer’s insurance to report the loss. The nice young woman insisted that she couldn’t find my account. After having her check variations on my name, I realized that I had called my old insurance company from twenty years ago. It was a scary moment to realize that I had forgotten my current insurance company.

The social worker came into my sister’s room the other day, as she had done once a month for the last five months. I couldn’t remember her name. Her face, yes! Is it because I am so busy, plus I am in charge of another person’s life?

I am reminded of the grandmothers or grandfathers who have accidentally forgotten their grandchildren. I used to wonder how that was possible. Now I am beginning to see it. That’s why older women can’t get pregnant. We would set down our babies and forget where we put them.

I lose my glasses, phone, and keys on a regular basis. I have a half dozen pairs of cheap sunglasses and multiple pairs of readers.  I used to call my phone from a landline to locate it, but I don’t have a landline anymore.  Now I have to hunt. It’s easy to get distracted and set my phone down, having to retrace my steps.

The Prius is the worst car for seniors because you don’t need to put a key in the ignition. I get home from a night of dancing and can’t find my keys to open my front door. I have to use the phone’s flashlight to look under the seat for my keys. It is embarrassing, if any of my neighbors are looking out their window at midnight.

I have friends in their seventies that can’t remember basic stuff, like a band they’ve seen multiple times, or where they stored their last version of a writing project. I am appalled, but you know what? That will be me in ten years. It’s a scary proposition.

I write for money. My brain is needed to create intellectual property. What am I going to do when my brain gets more muddled?

You whipper-snappers under the age of sixty, don’t laugh at your elders. You, too, will become forgetful and absentminded. And there’s not much you can do about it. If there were, I’d be doing it, big time!

Memorizing music and lyrics is one way to challenge my brain.  So I guess there’s that.


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