Desperately seeking words

My first indication that I was losing my vocabulary came years ago at work —I was middle-aged then—and I was telling our then-Graphics department about something I wanted printed on… I knew it began with a “p,” but all I could come up with was “partridge.” I didn’t say it out loud because (thank goodness) I realized it was not the right word. Eventually, probably only two minutes but it seemed longer, I sputtered “Parchment!” It scared me a little. I wasn’t even in menopause yet.

It’s not easy to be a writer who can’t always remember words. An online thesaurus is my pal, but I don’t use it for the maligned practice of coming up with fancier words to say simple things. I go to this trusty tool to find the word that I’m sure is in my head…someplace. I’ll be typing merrily along and suddenly I’m stumped. Let’s say I want to say something like mutilate, but I know that’s not the word I want. I’m confident there’s a word that’s a better fit—one that I use all the time. I just can’t bring it to the frontal lobes. So, assuming I can come up with a word that’s close in meaning, the thesaurus gives me a fighting chance. I may even know what letter it starts with—in this case, I’m sure the word starts with an “m.” But that’s as far as I can get, until the thesaurus offers up maim. Ahhh. That’s it!

Not being able to retrieve words can take its toll on the marital relationship too. When I want to say something to my husband, I use the handiest words available. Unfortunately, he can’t read my mind (although after all this time he should be able to accommodate my verbal affliction). So a typical conversation goes something like this:

Me: Can you get me the thing?

Him: What?

Me: You know, the thing, the round thing.

Him: What?

Me: The thing with holes…to catch pasta. The…strainer? Sieve?

Him: You mean the colander?

When I’m groping for a word that’s part of a request, he stares at me, a deer definitely caught in the headlights. He is not only confused but, being a helpful sort, he’s also frustrated. Sometimes his “What?” seems to be getting testier, not unlike the GPS lady when she needs to say “Recalculating,” for the fifth time.

While I'm desperately grasping at words, he may smile smugly. But I know we’ll have this kind of conversation in reverse later this evening. After all, he’s in his 60s too.

It’s a ghost…it’s a goblin…EEEK! It’s me.

I look around at the decorated houses and the aisles of seasonal goods. Horrible creatures dripping rubbery blood. Skeletons with evil smiles. Although I’d rather look away, these things aren’t so scary anymore. Here’s what gives me that creepy feeling today:

• Looking in the magnifying mirror—Oh, the chin hairs, the veins around my nose, the vanishing eyebrows!

• Looking in any mirror with my glasses on—Has my hair always been that frizzy?

• Trying to zip up last summer's Bermuda shorts—Did my hips expand like that in a mere 12 months?

• Glancing at the calendar and wondering what happened to last week (or looking at my watch and wondering what happened to the last three hours)—Does time really advance faster when you’re in your sixties?

• Starting to tell an old story to a new friend and suddenly realizing I'm not quite sure how it goes anymore—it’s not Alzheimers, it’s not Alzheimers, it’s not Alzheimers….

• Singing an old favorite song and forgetting the words I used to know so well—See above.

• Reading the daily obituaries and finding out about the deaths of contemporaries—I know I should stop reading them, but I can't.

• Getting indigestion and wondering if it could possibly be my heart—The scariest of all.

It’s not just these self-absorbing items that frighten me. I also fear the big things, like nuclear war, the Taliban, a meteor heading toward Earth, and the Tea Partiers. But I feel better about cowering from—and kvetching about—everyday horrors.

Happy Halloween!

Sexting: not recommended for the older crowd

Despite my constant carping on the atrocities of aging, I continue to look for reasons to be grateful about being older. A recent newspaper article prompted this one.

The story cited these survey results: One-fourth of teens and one-third of young adults admitted to “sexting,” or sending nude photos or videos of themselves by cell phone.
Isn’t it wonderful that, at the age of sixty-something, we’re not remotely tempted to do this? Think about it—the horror, the horror.

And who would we send these unsightly images to? Certainly not our spouses. They get enough of the jiggles, lumps, and bumps morning and evening. And if we’re single, do we really think we can tempt a potential partner with an artfully posed veiny, splotchy corpus vile? (Don’t bother looking it up. It means “A person or thing fit only to be the object of an experiment.”) I didn’t mean this literally. I just wanted a fancy way to say “a body we wouldn’t want the world—and certainly not a would-be suitor—to be able to view, enlarge, and gasp at.”

I’ll continue to have my photo taken while wearing my most flattering outfit, which is not my birthday suit. What’s flattering is becoming more specific every year. I still expose my neck, but how long will it be before I start tying on a colorful scarf or bulky jewelry to conceal the cragginess and lines? And that reminds me of my late mother, who would put her hand in front of her neck when posing, much like an ingénue of early films. We teased her about it and she took it with good nature, but if she wasn’t wearing a turtleneck or neckscarf, that hand would be splayed below her chin in almost every photo. I try not to emulate my mother in actions that we laughed at, but even if I wanted to, I don’t think the back of my hand would be a suitable substitute for an old neck. But that’s another story.