The birth of multiple senior moments
“They are coming closer together now! Only a few minutes apart!” There was a time when those words meant someone was about to give birth. But no more. It is me talking. About myself and “senior moments.”
The other night, I promised to finish a project that was due Friday. This wasn’t a typical Clear Creek Ranch project with a mythical completion date shrouded in the foggy future. So I arose early, pushed myself hard and worked on it all day, finishing in time for dinner.
I was apologizing to my wife for waiting until the last minute when she reminded me that it was only Tuesday, and there were 72 hours left until the due date. I had lost track of what day of the week it was!
It was my first “senior moment” of that day, unless you count misplacing my car keys, my reading glasses, my coffee mug, and the names of people I’ve known since my childhood.
I am at life’s crossroads and have run the stop sign. For two reasons: I couldn’t see it over the top of my steering wheel, and I am compelled to get to wherever I’m going at least half an hour early – to places that won’t even be open for an hour.
Not that I always remember where I am headed. When I get totally confused, I just drop the reins and my car heads for the barn on its own.
I am years away from the minimum age for Social Security retirement benefits, but each day my mail box is severely impacted with catalogs for geriatric goods and services.
I no longer receive “junk mail.” It all seems important.
A quick trip to the grocery store is now an all-day expedition as I plot my course to a dozen different markets based on the weekly sales circulars. For things I really don’t need – but what bargains!
I am now at an age where I can calculate what a “lifetime supply” might be. And I’m stockpiling it!
What I haven’t found is a tracking device for things I lose. And maybe for myself, in case I wander off. Some cell phones have tracking capabilities, but I’m not sure that is for me. I’d probably misplace the phone, too.
I once left a cordless phone on the bathroom counter and knocked it into the toilet while reaching for a towel. I’d remembered to put the seat down, but not the lid. Now there is a health issue.
According to one helpful article I received, flushing a toilet with the lid up will spew toxic bacteria 20 feet in the air. Providing one has cathedral ceilings in the bathroom. Here at the Ranch, we don’t. I picture the bacteria careening off the walls, landing on exposed toothbrushes, etc.
It distracts me from my real worry: ending up at one of those Senior Citizen “concentration camps.” They advertise one in the town near here, and I’ve taken the tour.
It seems nice enough, although the ads are a bit misleading. They picture a grinning old guy in hip-waders with his fishing pole, as if the avid angler can step out the back door right into a trout stream. Or is the courtyard water fountain stocked?
Imagine how the place would smell if every apartment had half-gutted fish left forgotten on the kitchen counter. It would be a hazard during the cold months as arthritic fly-fishermen snap barbed lines up and down the long corridors, honing their casting skills indoors.
If my anemic 401K won’t keep me out of there, I’m hoping the bathroom bacteria will get to me first.
But not right now, there is a sale I’ve got to get to. Where are my keys?
Mike Drummond is a Nevada County writer whose column appears on Tuesday. You can write him in care of The Union, 464 Sutton Way, Grass Valley, 95945; or e-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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