There are many perks attached to being a senior citizen – and, to be truthful, the only real negative I can think of is memory loss. Unfortunately, this keeps me from remembering the good stuff.
With each memory lapse I'm forced to question, "Is this normal for my age or does this warrant immediate medication and long term health care?"
A close friend recently observed that I appear to have become – shall we say – "bustier" over the past few years. Of course she was right. My bra size has noticeably increased, and in direct proportion to my age. But it has nothing to do with mammary, and everything to do with memory.
It started when Age began her insidious journey through my body. Over the years I became aware of little "gifts" she would bestow upon me – a strand of gray here, a wrinkle there, here an ache, there an ache, everywhere an ache, ache – (sorry....I just spent the weekend babysitting for my grandchildren) and body parts that had been perfectly content with their home for years, had packed up and moved south.
Okay, I'm a modern woman. I could get my hairdresser to do something for my grey, and a competent plastic surgeon to assist in my fight with gravity but my greatest problem involved my most precious asset – memory – and I was rapidly running out of it.
Attempts to improve or compensate for my fading memory failed until one day, as I wandered aimlessly through the aisles of an office supply store trying desperately to remember why I was there, I spotted a selection of colorful Post It Notes. It was then that I decided to carry Post It Notes with me at all times and write down my thoughts the moment they occurred. But, where could I put them to insure that I'd remember to read them?
The answer came as I watched a Mae West, Cary Grant movie and observed as Grant gave West a slip of paper with his address on it. She folded it in half and slipped it into the top of her gown's scoop neckline. At that moment I realized that my bra was the one constant in my life and an excellent depository for notes.
As my years advanced, and my memory further diminished, my A cup grew to C and then D cup proportions – well, one side did. My right handedness had me listing to the left, so I had to re-train myself to stuff messages with my left hand, as well.
The best part of this process is the excitement I experience when I disrobe each evening and watch scores of messages flutter to the floor. And when I scoop them up and read them, each note is a complete and total surprise to me.
My only concern, as I get older, is what will become of me. I can see future headlines now:
Police were summoned to the home of 89-year-old Laverne H. Bardy, found face down on the floor of her home today, kicking and thrashing wildly in a futile attempt to stand up. Bardy, whose upper body refused to raise from the floor, was heard mumbling something about an urgent need to visit Staples. Her children were notified and after assisting authorities in hoisting her to an upright position, they managed to sedate her with a fresh package of pastel Post It Notes.
Somebody stop me, please, before this becomes a reality.
Laverne's book, "How The (Bleep) Did I Get This Old?" is available at amazon.com and other online bookstores. Website: www.lavernebardy.com - E-mail her at: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.