Confessions from the Other Side…of 50

It Takes A Village (to remember a sentence)

It’s two days after Hurricane Dorian, and we’ve all been cooped up inside with no power. Penelope, ever patient, hasn’t had a good run in days.  Off to the beach we go, the three of us giddy with excitement for some sunlight, fresh air and exercise. As we stand at the top of the stairs heading down to the beach, we spot two tiny Cairn Terriers. Penelope is on point. She LOVES other dogs, mostly, and really wants to say hello. Not knowing if Penelope will pounce on these two wee ones, I hold her back with the retractable leash until they pass.

At the last minute, I hand the leash over to My Guy. I’ve fallen down these steps before,  sliding boom boom to the sand at the bottom.  Even my menopause-addled brain can remember that lesson. I don’t want to risk falling again since today it’s hard to determine where the steps are underneath the drifts of sand. 

Penelope receives the signal we are moving forward and decides she can still catch up to the little dogs heading up the beach. She lurches down the stairs. My Guy, completely caught off guard, loses his grip on the leash. I turn my head slightly in his direction only to see the large circular red plastic part of the leash, meant for a big dog, flying in my direction, retracting at a high rate of speed. Bang! It smacks me upside of the head.  Instant throbbing headache.  No, this did not just happen!

Back to the house we go to ice my head with what little ice we have remaining. It takes me awhile to regain my composure and assess the situation. I’m hit right at the top of my jaw making it difficult to open my mouth and chew on my left side.  As I look at my swollen face, I see my brow and cheeks look lifted. Nice. This must be what Botox is like, I think. 

If you follow this blog, you will know it’s been slightly over a year since I tripped up a flight of stairs, the day before my daughter’s bridal shower, with a tray of cupcakes, landing my head squarely on an oak butcher block table resulting in a black eye for three weeks.  On the exact same side of my head. Any time I forgot a word and couldn’t retrieve one quickly enough,  I worried I severed wiring in there, some major connection or something.  I would open my mouth and, and, and…waiting, waiting…until loosely tied together,  words would spill out as I tried to cover for myself, hoping it never sounded as bad as I thought it did.  

Menopause and hormones already take my words at will. I can’t have bumps on the head contributing to my vocabulary and speech deficits.  I have noticed lately it takes a village to complete a conversation.  Do you remember…wait, what was that again? Oh yeh, that’s right, thanks. What was the name of that, come on, it’s right on the tip of my tongue. Do you mean…yes, yes, that’s it. Sheesh. My women friends take this in stride like we’re playing a game of charades. My Guy (and I’m guessing guys in general, literal thinkers all), cannot seem to fill in the blanks and simply states, “I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”  A glimpse of our future together.

A year before that, I broke my toe in two places a week before a trip to France. Not that a broken toe contributes to brain fuzzies.  Or does it?  I better check the meridian pathways. 

Ironically, each of these moments I was in a blissful state.  Mindless,  perhaps,  but happy.  If you know me, you know I try to make meaning out of everything looking for the hidden messages in symbols and metaphors.  I’m stumped here though. Are these ways to keep me humble and in check? To keep me writing since obviously speaking coherently without a charades partner is an ongoing problem?  To keep me from exercising?  Maybe that’s it. Yeh, I like that one.

I just don’t know. But if you know, how about you post your insights below? 

Maybe we can put our collective, menopause-afflicted heads together and come up with something.  Sounds like…