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Now
that my age has surpassed the mid-century mark and I'm more ancient
than virtually all professional athletes, everyone in my department
at work, and even my pastor at church, I've noticed that the old memory
is not what it used to . . . . Wait. What was I writing about again?
My cognitive decline became all too obvious the other day when I was
at the Verizon store upgrading to one of those newfangled iPhone jumbo-large-print
editions with a camera powerful enough to take photos of the porta
potty on the International Space Station. (I mostly wind up just taking
close-ups of my nose hairs-sometimes by accident.)
As I proudly strode to my car after my purchase, trying to ignore
the fact that I'll be making payments on the phone until approximately
ten years past my life expectancy, I noticed that the "unlock" button
on my key fob wasn't working. Therefore, I took the most logical next
step. I began frantically and fruitlessly yanking on the door handle,
calling down elaborate curses on the car itself and whoever holds
the patent on the locking mechanism.
The situation worsened when I noticed two large dings (complete with
chipped paint) in the driver's side door of this relatively new car
that my wife and I had recently purchased for our youngest and quietest
daughter so that she could traumatize curbs throughout the city with
confidence and style.
As I began to turn back toward the store in defeat so I could phone
my wife for help (as usual), I caught a glimpse of the car's interior
out of the corner of my eye. I noticed a can of Mr. Pibb in the cup
holder and what appeared to be one of those vaping pen/pipe/bong/e-cig/poisonous
cloud spewer-type thingies lying on the console.
It then struck me that this was not my vehicle! I mean, I'm not the
healthiest dude on the planet, but I would never resort to drinking
Mr. Pibb!
As I backed away, praying for forgiveness about the cursing, hoping
that nobody was watching this pathetic spectacle, and concerned that
I was about to be assaulted by the vehicle's owner (who clearly has
horrible taste in soft drinks), I then noticed that not only was this
not my vehicle, but it wasn't even the same make-and only vaguely
resembled the color.
"What is happening to me?" I still wonder. "What's next? Mistaking
Preparation H for my toothpaste?"
This wasn't even the first time I've tried to unintentionally invade
the sanctity of someone else's luxury upholstery. The first time it
happened, I didn't look up from my Walmart buggy in time to notice
that there was a lady in the driver's seat of a vehicle that was almost
identical to mine—minus the grandmotherly driver who was probably
considering vehicular homicide as I tugged on her door handle. Luckily
for me, she just laughed hysterically instead of running me over or
filling my face with buckshot.
My sweet wife assures me that I just have too much on my mind, but
I'm pretty sure she's thinking about having me microchipped at this
point.
I guess this is all just part of getting older, and I might as well
laugh and enjoy the ride (as long as I'm doing it in my own car).
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