I am rapidly approaching 50. I can’t believe I’ve lived this long—never thought it would happen.
It’s odd—I can vividly remember being five-years old and walking to school with my older sister, Kim, for the first time. I remember having scarlet fever when I was three and we lived in Caribou, Maine. Our Swedish neighbors brought us donuts and potatoes because my illness meant the whole family was quarantined for six weeks. I can remember yelling “Apples Pie!” in the middle of Mass in Bennington, Vermont when my great-Uncle Tom and great-Aunt Thelma, who were also my godparents, took me to church. They told me I was two-years old at the time.
If I think hard enough, I can probably remember my date of conception, but that’s kind of icky and fodder for years of therapy.
I remember these things like they were yesterday.
The odd thing is though, I can’t remember yesterday.
I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night. I can’t recall what I walked into a room to do, or find, or say. I have to pause for a moment to remember my own cell phone number. I forget to feed the cat, I forget my umbrella, I forget where my keys are. I forget where I parked, I forget doctor’s appointments, I forget to floss, I forget to call, write, send, respond.
I go so far as to forget my three daughters’ names—having to run through the roster aloud before I come upon the one I meant to say. Sam, my youngest (20) has grown used to me calling her SarahAmandaSamanthawhateveryournameis.
Short-term memory seems to be the first thing to go as you reach my age. Okay, maybe not the first thing, but we’ll go with that for right now. And that’s not quite fair, you know, that we lose the ability to remember what we did before when we may only have moments left.
Now, I know at 49 3/4, I haven’t exactly crossed the line into my golden years. But I’m not quite middle-aged, unless I’m going to live to be 100. And apparently from what I read in all those women’s magazines, I am in the prime of my life. What that means, I don’t really know. As if my past was not prime and my future will be, well, “primer.”
I’m not really overly concerned I guess with whether my life is prime or not in the eyes of whomever it is who measures such things.
I have three lovely daughters—whose names I can’t recall—two wonderful grandchildren, devoted and supportive parents, and a job I truly enjoy on most days.
I got it all.
I just can’t remember where I put it.
