I have a fear of becoming senile.
I understand that eventually all of us will have some decline in our mental faculties, I just don't want to accept that as a fact. Even worse, I have anxiety issues based around this. See, I'm not only afraid of becoming senile, I'm afraid of it happening to me now, at my current age. Not that I'm anywhere close to gray haired (naturally, anyway. I always expect that I'm going to really screw up my hair and have grandma-blue color on my head).
Constantly I have moments occur in my life that make me question if I'm losing my grip on reality already. (Granted, this blog has enough to prove that I'm already gone, but that's a truth I choose to ignore.) I'm not talking the little things like losing keys, we all do that. Same with children. They show up eventually and all is okay.
I can rarely remember any details of movies I've just watched (with a few exceptions). And this can even be immediately after watching. I tell myself that I'm just being wise with my internal memory and not storing useless info. Perhaps saving room on my hard drive for something important.
But, to contradict this theory, I can remember almost every episode of certain sitcoms. Like all 10 seasons of Seinfeld. Or Arrested Development.
So I worry I may be slipping. And I continue to hope these are quirks, specific to me.
Then yesterday happened. Trying to get ready to leave, I had an outfit in mind that I wanted to wear. Nothing fancy, but it included my favorite jeans. Went to my dresser to get them, not there. Maybe I left them in the master bathroom? Nope.
I lost my pants. Gone. Missing. Lost. AWOL. Non-existent.
How can one lose a pair of pants?! Especially in a house that isn't very big, and doesn't look like it's had a hurricane come through recently. I take pride in keeping our home decent. Usually.
Enlisting the help of the family as a search party, we began to scour the house for my jeans. Running short on time, I decide to wear a different pair, but the hunt continues. Nowhere to be found. Todd checked his dresser, making sure they didn't get put away with his jeans. Not there. I checked my son Creed's dresser, just in case. Nope.
By this time I'm thinking in asterisks and ampersands (possibly even some pound symbols and dollar signs! at the stupidity of the situation. How could I have lost my pants?!
The day continues on. Life goes on. But the nagging thought of "Where are they?" still remained.
Finally, late afternoon-ish I thought of one place I hadn't checked. The only place I hadn't checked. My son Traben's pants drawer. He hates jeans, never wears them, doesn't own them. So there's no way I would've put a pair of jeans there, right? Right?!
There they were, in all their splendor, tucked neatly in his drawer.
So, here I sit at my table, wearing my wonderful jeans and wondering... have I lost my mind? No. No, I haven't. I hope I never lose it.
And I hope I never lose my pants again, either.
So, opinions? Am on the fast-track to becoming senile? Or do you have stories of embarrassment that make this story pale in comparison? Please tell me I'm not alone in this fear of youthful senility!