I’m reasonably certain a psychiatrist, or perhaps a neurologist specializing in disorders of the brain, would tell me it’s quite a common — even normal — phenomenon . . . for someone of my age, at any rate. Which is the next-to-last thing I want to hear (the last, of course, being a diagnosis of an actual brain disorder).

But neither do I want to hear about the age thing. Because throughout the years, as I’ve been learning to live with the physical ravages of time, I’ve told myself I’ll be fine as long as I don’t go completely bonkers . . . only now, I’m not so sure how that’s going either.

No, I haven’t forgotten what year it is, or where I live, or who is sitting in the White House (though, God knows, I’d like to forget that one). And I remember to take my prescription medications every day, and what each one is for; I haven’t yet worn my underwear outside my clothes; and I know that the mayonnaise goes into the refrigerator and the dirty dishes belong in the dishwasher.

So it’s not senility that has me grumpy . . . it’s just words.

I have a fairly impressive vocabulary . . . or I used to. And I know that everyone — even some of my younger friends — will have an occasional “brain fart” and go blank on a word or a name from time to time. But lately I find myself turning more and more frequently to my iPhone’s dictionary for the right . . . you know . . . that thing . . . what’s it called? . . . oh, yeah . . . the right word. Especially adjectives.

Memory is a strange thing. I can name, in nearly alphabetical order, all 50 states of the United States, and most of their capitals. I can also recall the 15 former Soviet Republics (now independent nations), grouped by location/ethnicity: 4 Slavic, 3 Caucasian, 3 Baltic, and 5 Central Asian.

But the other day, I had to ask the thesaurus to find a synonym for “despot.” You can probably guess who I was writing about at the time.

I remember — from 10th-grade Biology class — the names of all of the major bones of the human body.

But the name of one of my favorite actresses — the one who played the Dowager Empress in Downton Abbey — totally vanished from memory. Yes, I’m talking about the late, unforgettable Maggie Smith.

And I can still recite portions of Shakespeare’s soliloquies learned decades ago — Lady Macbeth’s mad scene, Marc Antony’s eulogy at Caesar’s funeral, and other equally useful bits and pieces — as well as Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.

But I’m damned if I can remember anything from the last book I read . . . including the title!

If I could carry a tune (sadly, I’m one of the 20% who can’t), I could sing the lyrics to nearly every song from nearly every musical produced between 1950 and 1990 (with the exception of Cabaret and a couple of others I didn’t care for).

But recently I had to look up the word for . . .

Oh, crap! Now I’ve forgotten what word I was looking for. See what I mean? I’ll never be chosen as a contestant on Jeopardy now!

*. *. *

I think you get my point. It’s not dementia, or senility, thank goodness. It’s “normal” — for someone of my age, that is. But it’s totally frustrating, infuriating, annoying, irritating, exasperating, and . . .

Oops . . . give me a second, will you, while I look up a few more adjectives?

And such is life in the slow lane.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/14/25