I forget. I forget little things mostly, but some little things can become big things, like forgetting where you put your passport. I forget episodes, I forget words. This helps me build my ability to describe, for example:
Me: That liquor. The Italian one that’s bright red and tastes like gasoline.
Her: Campari?
Me: That’s it!
I’m an old man now and forgetting is the “getting” part of old. I ruminate about getting old. I look at our fat-assed President climbing down the stairs to Air Force One and how he’s watching his tiny feet to make sure he doesn’t slip and it pains me to recognize that I do that too, going down stairs. I never forget to be careful on the stairs.
I lost my passport today, the passport I need to go to Canada and cruise to Alaska in 4 days. After tearing apart most of two rooms in our house frantically searching for the document, I called Sandie. (My phone says, “Calling Shmandie on cell.” I get a kick out of that.)
Me: Do you have my passport?
Her: No.
Me: Are you sure?
Her: I just moved mine from one place to another so I’d know where it is for the trip. I don’t have your passport.
Me: Neither do I.
Her: Did you look in your backpack?
Me:
Her:
Me: Do you have my backpack?
Her: It’s on that leather table next to the couch.
Later –
Me: I found my passport. It was in my backpack.
Her: (Sigh). Good.
