When fifty hit me, it literally hit me, behind the knees, in the stomach and across the back of the head. I started suffering migraines. My newly vocal knees that on their own would sometimes decide to curtsy, for no apparent reason, no queen or royalty in sight, were growing creakier and crankier every day. The stomach thing was more like a sick feeling that tagged along with me wherever I went, taunting me that life worth living might soon be over. Feeling extremely sorry for myself - I knew in reality I wasn't that old, but like the lead character in a Woody Allen movie, in which by the way, I would've won an Oscar, would still think "yeah, so what, I might have 30/40 years left, but how good can they really be." Thinking this might be the right time to find God, start repenting, and begin that long road of begging for forgiveness. Oh the shame, hanging my head and adding to my migraine with thoughts of all the wasted time, and that long unanswered question, why in the world had happy hour trumped night school? On a positive note, it looks like I won't have to beat myself up much longer with these wicked thoughts and memories of regret. I can barely remember simple things, such as, the year I was born. Sometimes a simple question like, "how old are you?", and I truly have to stop, hmm, scrunch up my face, and think about it. Soon I won't even remember ever being at a bar, much less early enough to make it to happy hour!
So besides the creaky knees, the loss of vision, the drying skin and hair, is the predictable and legendary memory loss of aging, or more like a "fog" we get disoriented in. I have that same bewildered look on my face, like Doris Day in the beginning of the movie "Midnight Lace", which if I remember correctly was one of the scariest movies I ever saw in my life. And quite similar to a deer caught in the headlights, at times I just find myself standing in the middle of the room, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling, or staring off at nothing in particular, forefinger to chin, "what was I going to do just now?" - perplexed, squinting my eyes as if I try really hard to concentrate it will come to me.
And it usually does come to me, during the middle of the night as I wake in an "ah ha" moment - so relieved that I remembered. It might be something simple, like checking to see if a certain blouse was in the laundry or checking to make sure there was half and half for my morning coffee. At this point in life you can only store so much information. Enter the computer, our new best friend It can remember for us! Brilliant. The problem now is that I keep forgetting my user names and passwords because every account requires one. And "they" (whoever they are) make you feel for security reasons that you need to constantly switch it up, make the passwords difficult, change it every few months, don't use anything obvious, use different passwords and ID's for all of your accounts. You get instructions like this, "your password must contain 3 numbers, 3 lowercase letters and 2 uppercase letters." Are you kidding me? So I make up something clever that I am sure will stick in my memory like a cinnamon roll would stick to my thighs (especially a Cinnabon cinnamon roll, which God knows, I make every effort to avoid), write it down in my daytimer just in case I ever forget it, which is inevitable and so is misplacing the daytimer. I spend more time requesting my password be sent to my email address because I can't remember it, or I make one too many attempts to log on and they lock me out. Lock me out of my own account and tell me to try back in an hour or so.
So between managing forgotten usernames and passwords for my email accounts, of which I have three, my online banking account, my credit card accounts, an etsy account, my blogspot account, my constant contact marketing account, my eBay account, paypal account, MySpace account, Facebook account, YouTube account, Amazon account, Sephora account, and numerous others accounts, I am an extremely busy woman. So busy that I probably won't even have time to remember that my knees ache or to really even care in which year I was born.