I am rapidly approaching 54. 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, coming back from the coast early from our vacation because Hurricane Camille was approaching shore. I vividly remember the high winds whipping the car and feeling as though the hurricane was going to catch us. I also remember my sister and I getting two chihuahua puppies the week before Christmas and getting in trouble because we had waited for our parents to finish putting out the gifts Christmas Eve to get up and sneak a peak before the family got up. Our attempt was foiled by the puppies barking at us causing our father to scold us as we always opened the gifts as a family on Christmas morning.
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 childrens’ names—having to run through the roster aloud, even the dogs’ name before I come upon the one I meant to say. All of my children have grown used to me calling them; Ashleigh, Brandon, Cody, Fido…whatever your name is.
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 actually if we think about it, we lose the ability to remember what were doing moments before what we forgot to do or were saying so there’s no point in trying to retrace your steps or thought process because…poof, it’s all gone.
Now, I know at 52½, 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 106. 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 children—whose names I can’t recall—two wonderful grandchildren and another on the way, an incredible man who loves me, whom I love dearly, who also has two great kids, and a job I truly enjoy on most days.
I got it all.
I just can’t remember where I put it.