WHAT’S IT LIKE GROWING OLD, PART 2 of 3

WHAT’S IT LIKE GROWING OLD, PART 2 of 3

THE LOST WORD SYNDROME, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN

This one crept up on me and has become a real hindrance to my verbal communication.  At least once a week, I visit my sister and her husband just to catch up. In my exuberance to spew out my week’s news, I invariably find myself searching for a word.  I know it as well as I know my name, so it’s in my head somewhere, but I’m unable to pluck it out.  I’ve used it in the past, an hour ago, or only a minute before. Where has it gone? It has gotten so bad that my brother-in-law, a much younger man than I, plugs in my missing word. I call him my human thesaurus.

For a dyslexic writer, this is a horrifying experience. Now, not only can I not spell the word, I cannot even find it. Thank goodness for my word processor. It saves my butt hundreds of times a day. Because of this debilitating quirk, I stay at home and don’t socialize  much anymore. It’s just me and my faithful computer.

I’ve heard it’s good to keep your mind active because it improves your longevity . Now, I’m not sure that’s the case anymore. As long as I only hang around with my family or good friends, who know my quandaries and are quick to fill in words for me, it’s not so bad. It is frustrating and embarrassing receiving that questioning look,  “and this guy is a writer?” It seems to happen, mostly, when I’m anxious to spew something out before I lose my thoughts altogether, or what I’m trying to say something in a fluent and snappy manner. I label this syndrome as ‘the old fogy stutter’.

GAS APLENTY, OOPS, EXCUSE ME

Another problem old ones suffer, and one for which my wife is constantly chasing me from the room for committing, is always being in command of one’s exhaust gasses, whether from the mouth or from the other end of the digestive system. A belch is not so embarrassing and is usually overlooked by a giggle and, “excuse me.” On the other hand, an inadvertent explosion of bowel gasses is not so graciously excused or accepted as a slipup. Nor is it so easy to beg ones, “pardon me,” as though you bumped into them.

The first time this happened to me in the presence of others, I was in the library walking across the lobby on my way out. This beautiful young woman, on her way in, flashed a lovely smile and said, “Good morning, Sir.” I smiled back and returned the greeting. It happened just as we passed, and it was loud. What could I do? Mortified, I kept walking and hoped the two of us never crossed paths again.

WHAT'S IT LIKE GROWING OLD, PART 1 OF 3

OLD FOGY SYNDROMES, ANTIDOTES & ANECDOTES

I never thought, felt, or even imagined I would grow old or become a slow-stepping, droopy-pants, absentminded, old fogy, but here I are. I guess I figured I would go on as I was until one day I would just keel over and take the eternal dirt nap. Such is the blindness of youth. Now, as my seventy-second birthday approaches at the speed of light, symptoms of old age wear on me. When they first started, I was reluctant to admit or accept these characteristic traits indicative of an elderly person. I’m not ready for this. There are still many mountains out there I plan to conquer and I don’t want to take an entourage of aids to attend to my old-person ailments.

One of the signs associated with a man growing old is when he unknowingly walks around with his fly open. This one frustrates me more than all the others.  It’s embarrassing. “Are you trolling?” is what we used to ask of a shipmate to let him know his fly was open, back, a couple hundred years ago, when I served in the Navy.  It makes me wonder. Do people think I’m searching for a sex partner? Do they think I’m a pervert seeking an opportunity to shock someone. How could I forget to zip up? The worst part is, not discovering it until I’m in a crowd, or worse, alone with a female friend. How does one covertly recover from this predicament?

OTHER DRESS INFRACTIONS, OR YOUR MAMA DRESSES YOU FUNNY, BOY

A shirt button in the wrong hole, a collar tucked under, a shirt tail hanging out, going to Wal-Mart in my slippers, well, maybe that one is not so much a sign of old age as it is a sign of sloppiness, or fitting in with the crowd,  wearing mismatched socks; fortunately, this one never happens to me. Here’s a cure.

Long ago, I developed the habit of pinning my socks together with a safety pin as a time saving solution while doing my laundry. I hated sorting socks or rummaging through my socks drawer to find a sock’s mate. And too, if you have many pairs of socks the same color, which I do, because it eliminates a lot of decision making, and it ensures the pair wear out together. Doesn’t that paint a touching picture; Mr. and Mrs. Sock meet their demise at the same time?

I wish this simple safety-pin fix could be applied to some of my other difficulties. I have calculated, that over the years, I have saved thousands of hours using this safety pin fix. Now I waste those hours searching for lost words.

THE OPEN-FLY SYNDROME, SHAME ON YOU