We all know the things that start to wear out as we get older — you don’t need me to list them for you. The physical stuff is bad enough; but to me, even worse is when you’re standing there talking to someone and, mid-sentence, you can’t remember a specific word. Not something abstruse, like “esoteric,” for example. But . . . oh, say . . . “refrigerator.” Or “dog.”

And God forbid, someone should ask you the name of your favorite actor, or your best friend. Or your sister.

But it never ceases to amaze me when I recall, in the most excruciating detail, a complete picture of a party I went to, a show I saw, or a meeting I attended 40 years ago . . . including what I — and everyone else — wore, where we sat, what we ate, and who said what to whom.

And those thoughts inevitably lead me to marvel at the things I was able to do back then, 40 or 50 or . . . well, never mind how many years ago. Let’s just say, even if I wanted to, there’s no way in hell I could ever:

. . . repeatedly climb five flights of stairs to my office in that little old building in Prague every time the power went out during that summer of 1991.

. . . or, for that matter, walk those hilly, cobblestone streets of Prague, for miles and miles and miles.

. . . go straight from the office to the gym and work out on those . . . oh, what’s that word? . . . well, those machines for a couple of hours, and leave there feeling refreshed.

. . . dance for hours in four-inch heels, and still be able to walk the next day.

. . . eat an entire baked stuffed lobster, plus the dozen large scallops in the stuffing, and part of a baked potato . . . and still think about dessert. All without throwing up. (At Mattakeese Wharf in Barnstable, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, if you’re interested.)

. . . or run for a bus.

. . . or schlep luggage through an airport.

. . . or get up at 6:00 a.m., work all day, meet friends after work and party until 2:00 a.m., then do it all over again the next day.

. . . or just get up at 6:00 a.m., for any reason.

*. *. *

And those are just the fun things. The next stop on my train of thought is usually somewhere in the midst of all those things I’ve done throughout my life that I might not have done if I’d been smarter, or more cautious. You really want to know? Okay, then . . . there was:

. . . the time, on one of those after-work get-togethers, I consumed close to half of a fifth of vodka, then drove someone else home because he was too drunk to drive. It was his car, by the way, which I kept in order to get myself home; he had to take a taxi to pick it up the next day. And incidentally, please don’t mention this one to my kids; I don’t do that anymore.

. . . or the time I let myself be talked into eating escargot (snails, in case you didn’t know — and don’t you wish you still didn’t!). Even the excess of garlic and butter didn’t make them less disgusting.

. . . or go out with that guy I dated, just once, as a favor to . . . well, no. Never mind that one.

. . . or meeting that old acquaintance in Moscow and agreeing to help his friend find a publisher in the U.S. for his tell-all book.

No, actually, I think I would do that one again . . . but a bit differently, knowing what I know today. Because without that whole experience, I’d have very little to talk about in my old age, and this blog wouldn’t exist.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
10/8/24