I'm a little worried about myself.
I know, when AREN'T I worried about myself?
The past few days I've gotten a little . . . forgetful. More forgetful than usual.
I spent several minutes wandering around the parking lot the other day, trying to find my car.
I keep mistyping things.
I'm always forgetting words. The ones I'm trying to say. You know, "Hey, can you give me the . . . thing . . . you know, that thing . . . that I need," which usually ends up being something as esoteric as the remote control or a napkin.
Plus, there's the usual stumbling and bumping into the walls that I do. Which I wouldn't worry about too much, except it seems like it's getting worse. Whereas I used to just walk into the corner of the wall on my way into the bathroom, now it seems like the coffee table is out to get me, as is the dishwasher and, frankly, the side of the car.
I'm fervently hoping that the Alzheimers gene floating in my paternal pool isn't making a spectacularly early entrance. I realize that I've got a lot on my plate right now, and I'm sure you're all forgetful, too, right? RIGHT? PLEASE SAY YES!!! It's probably just a passing thing, one that will disappear when I get a few minutes to just focus on one thing at a time.
Except - I actually worried the other day that I wasn't getting dressed completely before I left the house. You know? You're in a rush and you think, o.k., I'm good to go and then I ended up in the car thinking, "Did I put on underwear?" And then I checked under the waistband and found I did, but that moment of not knowing? TERRIFIED ME. Because I'm sure it's only a matter of time before I head out in just my bra, and not a cute one.
Also, I find that I'm tempted to start staying things like, "You're motherfucking goddamn right," or "Hiya, Cuntface."
Actually, I'm kind of o.k. with that.