As I nudge my way past
three score and three years of life on earth, it seems to me that
occasions of CRS have entered my life with more frequency than days
past. CRS, to the uneducated, is “Can't Remember Sh_t.”
It started maybe ten years
ago when I'd be ordering something online and I'd rattle off my
credit card number from memory lickety split. Then, over time, you
start forgetting a digit, then two, then more, then just take the
damn thing out of your wallet.
Then comes along the not
so often experienced but somewhat unsettling panic of exiting Stop
and Shop and not having a clue where you parked your car in that sea
of sheet metal in front of you. One progresses from there to the
mildly upsetting, walking into the room and forgetting why you went
there and/or what you came in there for syndrome. Three additional
blogs will be dedicated to finding car keys.
None of these occurrences
happens with maddening frequency, they happen just often enough to
let you know that you ain't going to be around when they pop the cork
on year 2121. You are starting to notice that you are losing a
little, maybe just a mile an hour or two or so, off of your fastball.
You aren't going from Cy Young to Syonara overnight, but you might just
need some time in the minors to work on location and velocity. Then
very gradually over the next few years, I noticed the occasional
unnerving tendency when preparing a bowl of cereal to unconsciously
starting reaching to put the milk back into the cupboard and the
cereal back in the refrigerator. Those of you from my era, can I get
an “Alleluia?”
The old joke about winding
up the cat and putting out the clock doesn't seem quite so far
fetched anymore or funny. Thank God we don't have a cat.
And like many things,
there's the day you break new ground and become one of the
co-captains on the “I Don't Believe I Really Did That” team.
And, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, that day was yesterday for
me.
It began as a day like any
other day in Massachusetts in early May. Sunny, cool with a hint of
humidity to ease us into summer weather. Baseball was in the air. I
had successfully negotiated dressing myself (when that becomes a blog
topic...well, forget it) and eating breakfast without any major
pitfalls. Emails were read, bills were paid, all was running hot,
steady and normal in my world. It was now time to head out of the
house and pick up the book I had requested from the library, “101
Things To Do In Sheboygan on $10 a Day” and go to the town
store and pick up my mail. With me so far? I thought I'd bring along
Loretta, my iPad, since I may grab lunch at some point and now that I
have a download-able subscription to The Boston Globe, I can yell at
The Globe morons from places other than the confines of my humble
abode. I headed down to the garage to head out but just as I was
about to get into the car I remembered something that I had forgotten
in the kitchen, a letter that needed to be mailed, so I headed back
upstairs to retrieve it. I was on my way like a fat cat on a rat in
no time. No sooner did I drive out of my driveway than I was behind a
town tractor with a extended grass mowing arm thingy slowly driving
up my road. The problem was, in the short distance ahead was a curve
in the road that is a little scary. I had to make a command decision
here: do I stay slow, real slow and follow the tractor around the
curve and be safe or pull a James Bond high speed 9G lane change into
the oncoming lane, shoot as fast as possible in front of the tractor
just before I get to the curve and then slide back at another 9G's
into the right hand lane and go on about my business and then let the
blood flow slowly ease back into my brain. Hell, I'm from
Massachusetts. There is no decision, no decision whatsoever. I hit
the gas and hit it hard. Lucille, my car, responded like a rocket.
There were no cars coming from the opposite direction and I felt like
since I had fulfilled my head on collision quota for 2012, off I
went. Over, around and back into my lane again in no time. Indy 500
here I come. And so I went merrily along for 2 more miles toward town
pondering the relative advantages of the interlocking versus
overlapping golf grips when I looked over and looked at the space
between the passenger seat and console. This is where I usually keep
Loretta, my iPad, when out of the house so “inquiring minds”
won't see her and decide to make her one of their own. The space was
empty. Loretta wasn't there! Where did I leave my iPad? Time to
replay the video tape in my mind from the last 5 minutes. (This should be
good.) I was trying to retrace my steps frantically when I thought,
“Oh no, you can't be that stupid.” As we know, stupid is a
relative word and the varying degrees of potential stupidity are
monumental. I stopped the car by the side of the road. I slowly
opened my door and sidled my way out of the car and looked. Yup,
there Loretta was, my iPad, sitting smack dab on the roof of my car.
Through 9G turns and power accelerations she was still there. Good girl.
Thank God for gravity.
Now what were we talking
about again, I forgot.
Until next time....
