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!

The plot thickens…as my memory thins

Searching high and low, I found another reason to appreciate getting older. Now I can watch old episodes of Law and Order—the original, not the spinoffs—and enjoy them as if I’ve (almost) never seen them before.

Even the dramatic opening crime scene doesn’t always trigger recognition. But soon some memorable character will nudge my brain, and I realize I’ve sat through the episode before, sometimes twice. But the beauty of it is that I can’t remember how it turns out—who’s guilty, who was double-crossed, who’s lying, and why. An episode can be one I’ve seen three times, and I’ll remember it has a beauty of a plot twist. I just can’t recall what it is.

Okay, this may sound more like something to fear and complain about and not to celebrate. I’m trying very hard to stay positive. And positive means that I see it as a good thing: I can get double (or lots more) enjoyment out of a single show. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

But there’s something I’m wondering about. How come I can remember the beginning, middle, and ending of every episode of Sex in the City?

I married a younger man—just not young enough

My husband is younger, but just by a few years. That puts him in the same decade of life as I am. And it means that when we’re watching an old movie, and I ask, “Who’s that actress again?” he usually answers, “It’s What’s-Her-Name.” And there we sit, neither one of us able to conjure up even a first initial as a guide. If we’re lucky, he or I may shout it out a half-hour or so later. But most times, the mystery ends when he looks it up on his iTouch.

Then there are the crossword puzzles. I love doing them, and I’ve even been tackling the New York Times Sunday puzzles lately. But more often than I’d like to admit, a word sits on the tip of my frontal lobes but just won’t work its way down into my hand and out the ballpoint pen I'm clutching. After several tries, I’ll admit defeat and ask my spouse for help. Nine times out of ten, he's sure he knows it but just can’t get it out of the recesses of his brain either.

So it appears that his relative youth is of no use to me in these trivial pursuits. Or is it? Would I feel better if he glibly spouted the actress’s name or leaned over and wrote the elusive puzzle word in the squares? Absolutely not. If he did that, I would probably conclude that my lapses were a sign of encroaching memory loss—the A word. Instead, we can laugh together at the toll age takes on our storehouse of memories. Then I think to myself: If someone younger than I can’t answer these questions quickly either, I must be OK. And we’re in this together.