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The Continuing Disintegration of My Mind

I once had a beautiful mind (not a Beautiful Mind, mind you). It was full of interesting nooks and crannies, fabulous contradictions – the same brain that stored memorized poetry and Chaucer (in Old English, obvs) also knew ALL the words to Notorious B.I.G.’s final album (RIP) and remembered every single phone number I’ve ever had. Once upon a time, I could calculate tips for waiters, think of witty comebacks on the spot, do long division.

Now, not so much.

I asked the hubby this morning: “What’s 9 times 7?”

Two things that make this question unacceptable:

1. I tested out of AP Calculus in high school, then CHOSE to take more math in college because I LIKED IT SO MUCH AND WAS SO FUCKING GOOD AT IT.


2. I can’t blame fatigue anymore! Our amazing children each sleep 12 hours a night! Uninterrupted! And have for a while now! (To be clear, I am not upset about this. Only bummed I can’t blame them for my shortcomings.)

Yesterday, while observing my daughters being nice to each other, I said: “Good sistering, girls!”


I threw a bag of trash into the washing machine yesterday. Didn’t realize it until after I’d poured in the Tide.

So, truly, flecks of my brain are starting to chip off like old paint. Is this just part of getting older, or maybe what happens when one feeds one’s brain a steady diet of Sesame Street and Baby Einstein, with no time to dine on the newspaper or that new Lawrence Wright book that’s been collecting dust since it was preordered on Amazon? I can’t be certain why, exactly, I’m losing it, but I am and I don’t like it one damn bit. I am becoming one of THOSE women – the kind who putters around instead of walking with purpose. The kind who constantly tells you to remind her to do something, or wanders into rooms and stands there, lost, asking aloud: “Why did I come in here?”

And don’t try to make me feel better about my brain erosion. Don’t lie and say it’s adorable or endearing because I know it’s neither. No one wants to be married to/friends with a putter-er or dodder-er. No one finds this attractive, especially when the dodder-er in question is a mere 36 years old.

Terrifying new frontier, this. Next up, no doubt: a Fanny pack and Med-Alert jewelry.

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