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your neighbors more often. Of course, it’s because you think that’s where you live, but they don’t know that. They might, however, get a little suspicious when an entire season passes before you say you need to go home.
    It hasn’t been proven yet, but I’m fairly certain our memory cells die faster with physical exertion. They must. Think about it: How many times have you walked into a room to get something only to stand there looking around wondering what it was you went into the room to get?
    I think it’s the walking that does it. If you would have stayed in your chair just thinking about getting up to get whatever it was you needed to get up and get, you would have remembered what it was you were going to get up and get in the first place.
    Memory cells die off while using the telephone, too. Has this ever happened to you? You dial a number, then completely forget who it is you’re calling. You don’t hang up, of course, because you’re sure you’ll remember who you called the minute you hear the voice on the other end of the line. Unfortunately, though, a six-year-old answers, and you’re still clueless. The kid doesn’t help you out, either, when you ask him who his parents are because he’s been taught not to talk to strangers. So you simply pretend to have dialed the wrong number, until the six-year-old finally recognizes your voice and says, ‘‘Grandpa!’’
    What I don’t get is why our memory has to go on the blink at a time when we’re given so much to remember. Our doctors tell us to take three of one pill four times a day, four of another pill three times a day, and one of yet another every ten hours for twelve days. How are we supposed to remember all that? Why can’t they just put all our medications into one giant capsule that’s set to release the proper dosage at the proper time? Sure, they make those little containers marked Sunday, Monday, Tuesday . . . but what good are they if you don’t know what day it is?
    Then there are all those other numbers we have to memorize nowadays: our bank account number, our driver’s license number, our Social Security number, the PIN numbers for twelve credit cards, our previous three addresses, our age, and our frequent-flyer account numbers. I don’t know why we can’t be assigned one number for all of it and stay with that for the rest of our lives. Like twenty-five. I’d be happy to keep the number twenty-five for my PIN, my phone card number, and my permanent age.
    Long-term memory doesn’t seem to be as big a problem as short-term memory. While we may not be able to remember what we said to someone five minutes ago, we can clearly recall the hurtful comment our spouse made back in 1984, what he was wearing at the time, and the barometric pressure that day. Some people call that selective memory. Maybe it is. Maybe as we grow older we get better and better at selective memory. We remember in vivid detail those few things that brought us pain, while forgetting the hundreds of blessings that come our way every day.
    I think we’ve got it backward.

    None are as old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.
—Henry David Thoreau

17

You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore
    It happens over a period of time, a change so slow you hardly notice it. First, it’s your birthday gift. Instead of getting that cute little nightie with the embroidered hearts, you open the gift bag and discover a lovely pair of flannel pajamas, complete with feet. You tell your husband you love them, and to a certain extent, it’s true.
    You appreciate the fact that the pajamas will keep you warm when he sets the thermostat to twenty degrees (minus-four degrees wind chill factor with the ceiling fan). But flannel pajamas, no matter how well crafted, could mean more than toasty warmth on those chilly summer nights. They could be a warning sign that something has changed in your relationship—not a serious change, just a notable one.
    Christmas gifts are affected next.