I caught a glimpse of a friend of a friend on the bus this evening, someone whom I've met a bunch of times. Several bunches of times, even. I could not remember her name. Could not. And could not, still. I turned away from her, sinking deeper into my earbuds, and scrolled desperately through the friends list of our mutual connection on Facebook. Perhaps I could slyly glean her name and then make breezy contact, as if I had just been too absorbed in the Judge John Hodgman podcast to notice her sooner.
I failed to find her name, and I failed to remember her name, as we bumped along the 22 route for another fifteen minutes. It became way too late on this bus ride, and seemed too many years into our acquaintanceship, simply to engage in a mea culpa chat and ask her to remind me her name. I slunk off at my stop, feeling both embarrassment and an odd neutrality (or was it numbness?) about the coming storm of my senility.
I’m not even joking.
I’m 43, and it’s been happening for the last two years or so. Words, particularly names, are dropping out of my head. A couple years ago, I asked my sisters, both ahead of me in age by some years, “Do you forget words sometimes?” Both answered yes. “How old were you when you started noticing it?” “Oh, around 40.” Hrm.
After ascending the stairs and starting up my computer, I immediately attempted to Google this person to find out her name. I know a lot of things about her: she’s a published writer, and a Buddhist, and runs writing workshops, and I’ve read pieces she’s written. And, thank whatever deity or spark in my neural pathways, I finally remembered her name without the internet having to jog my memory. I just needed about an hour of active and passive recall time.
Aging is so odd, and fascinating, and scary.
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