Saturday, October 19, 2019

Time is Relative, but Relentless

It's a rainy cold  night in New Paltz.  It seems we jumped from late summer to early winter in the past week.  I sit at the reception desk of Roost Studios, facing the open door.   I am tonight's guardian of the store from five to closing at eight.  On this cold rainy evening we have had one visitor.  On the upside one can get some chores done without interruption. On the down side there aren't that many chores to do.  Boredom sets in; time slows, and slows, and slows.  I feel like a child perceiving every hour as a day, every day a week, every week a month, every month a year.

In reality, I'm more than halfway past my seventy-seventh birthday.  To my old self it feels like my life has taken no time at all, gone too quickly as I continue riding the speeding train that carries my last several decades away.

Time to cheer up.  Let's talk about aging.

Things I have noticed:

1) My tact and diplomacy filters, charged with monitoring observations and opinions that form in my brain to decide whether they become public or remain 'inside words', have become mired in a septuagenarian soup.  Hence an unfiltered comment often escapes, becomes in public, with unpleasant results.

2) There appears to be a tollbooth between my mind and vocal cords, and I am unable to pay the toll on time.  I will begin a statement that, in my mind, is clear and relevant to whatever discussion I am entering, only to be short the toll for a keyword that my entire argument revolves around.  So I am left in open-mouthed silence, or stammering until that word surfaces, or until I find one barely sufficient to continue the remark in some way that makes sense.

3) Proper nouns, specifically names, occupy a compartment in the cranium that is the earliest to deteriorate.  I've heard that the brain contains everything that has ever entered into its nooks and crannies.  Well that portion of my particular gray matter that houses the name recognition storage, may have retained the name of every person or object I have ever taken in, but the recall mechanism has disappeared.  I never had a reliable memory for names, but as I've aged it has become so problematic that in speaking with people I've known for decades, I am often unable to say their name until they're gone.  It doesn't have the same effect if I blurt it out to an empty space, or to a stranger who hurries away in fear.

4) Topics of conversation.  During my weekly old guys breakfast, our interaction generally begins with what someone has dubbed 'the organ recital,' wherein we outline aches and pains in a sort of unacknowledged competition before discussing: the current political climate, upcoming travels, or our wives.

Those of you who have reached your dotage know whereof I speak, the rest of you — just you wait.

Namaste.



No comments:

Post a Comment