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.