Time tricks us. Time trips us. Time tells no tales. Time waits for no one. No, wait, that one was taken already, by that Mick character, a man, not a mouse. It seems like only yesterday -- well, no, it doesn't really -- I was a college student working summers behind the poolside and indoor food counters at the Lido Hotel in Lido Beach, Long Island, a throwback resort in the Catskills mold where a very bloody scene in The Godfather was filmed, and where I waited on Henny Youngman and saw the back of the head of Don Rickles sitting on the beach and waited on Mr. Florsheim, as we called him, because he owned the shoe chain.
Along with my equally obnoxious collegiate colleagues, we reciprocated what we viewed with disdain as the poor-tipping, wealthy clientele with verbal and written messaging that declared, "Thank you for your senility." Somewhat remarkably, the prank elicited either laughs or obliviousness.
Forty years later, it's my seeming onset of senility that occupies my thoughts, and it's no laughing matter.
They same things come in threes. What things? In my case, senile things. Senile? I may as well be drowning in the Nile.
Thing Number 1
I am at the gym on the treadmill with my earphones plugged into the TV soundbox attached to the machine's side bar. I stop running and untread the 'mill, only to discover -- what the @&$(%)! -- where did my iPod go?! I run down to the locker room, twirl the combination lock furiously, open the door, but -- oh my god, no iPod! Oh no, pod! I run back up to the fitness center, look in the cup compartment of the treadmill I was on and come up empty. Then I look in the memopad binder I use to track my workouts. Not there either. Just then, I glance at my left arm, you know the one with an iPod armband wrapped around the bicep and -- whaddya know? -- an iPod inside the iPod armband. Ladies and gentleman, I give you Proof of Senility Exhibit A.
Thing Number 2
Thing Number 2
I am sitting in my vintage 1998 Toyota, one of the only RAV 4 ragtops in captivity, in my garage, ready to leave for work. But one thing is awry. Where oh where can my clip-on prescription sunglasses be? These babies have a nasty, mischevious habit of leaving me adrift many a morning when leaving the house for work. I inevitably must flash back to the previous night to retrace in my pea brain my nocturnal path of destruction. Did I leave them in the cubbyhole of my car door. Or perhaps this time they are on my den desk hiding lazily under some papers. Maybe I left them in my briefcase again, so I'd know where to find them -- until I routinely forget that I put them there.
Or, lessee ... (pointer finger is now tapping my uncleft chin ruminatively as my eyes squint with a hint of theatricality) ... maybe the clipper-goners are in the inside breast pocket of the jacket I brought to work the previous day, which spends the day hanging lonesomely in my closet, as does each jacket I tote to work every day yet never wear unless I have an out-of-office meeting.
Or, lessee ... (pointer finger is now tapping my uncleft chin ruminatively as my eyes squint with a hint of theatricality) ... maybe the clipper-goners are in the inside breast pocket of the jacket I brought to work the previous day, which spends the day hanging lonesomely in my closet, as does each jacket I tote to work every day yet never wear unless I have an out-of-office meeting.
I hightail it upstairs to my bedroom closet to rifle the jacket's breast pocket, but no sunglass clip-ons! I think of Marvin Gaye because, you know, I've got to find a way, to find those clip-on glasses here today. What's going on? I go to my home office, scan my desk, but noooo, they wouldn't be there, of course. THAT would be too obvious, too easy, too anxiety relieving. So, I slacken my shoulders in the glare of resignation, and return to my rara modus transportus. As my head tilts forward in recognition of my addle-pated performance, my unshaded eyes catch my shirt pocket, which is filled with a soft-plastic black case inside of which is ... you guessed it ... my clip-on sunglasses. They found me, their favorite sun. Macho men and gentle ladies, I humbly submit for your consideration Proof of Senility Exhibit B.
Thing Number 3
Thing Number 3
I finish my workout at the gym, an off-day from hitting the free weights that I effortfully swing to and fro like so many heavy slabs that hurt like heck to heft, so I can tone them there love handles, lats, abs, pecs, redundant chins and assorted other body parts, while also sneaking in a few dippity dos on the dip machine.
I'm standing at my locker after an invigorating 75-minute pump-and-grind session, and as soon as I start to rotate the dial on the combination lock, the reflex that almost unconsciously lets you hit the three numbers like clockwork mystifyingly exits my brain. Omigosh, I realize, I am having an attack of brain-lock! Did the workout divert too much oxygen from my uppermost grey muscle to my core and its attached limbs?
OK, so I resolve to gather my wits to recall the combination I know like the back of my hand from dialing it three times a week. Of course, it is 15-22-... 3? Doesn't work. Right, that's because it's really 15-22-13. That's it. Uh, no, it isn't. Then it must be 15-22-33 ... or is it 22-15-3? Or am I up a tree without a clue.
I am kicking myself psychically for stowing away the combination in the bag inside the locker and vow from this day forward, as god is my witness, I will keep the combination on my person when working out, written in the memopad binder I carry around like Linus's blanket.
Panic begins to set in. What is happening to me? My cellphone is in the locker, otherwise I'd be ready to dial a different group of digits -- 911. "Hello, officer. I need emergency help ... I can't open my combination lock! Quick, please, send a patrol car, and, if you don't mind, hold the siren. I have a reputation in this fine community to uphold. I can't afford to look like the idiot I feel like right now."
After attempting several combinations, which I am certain, in my heart of hearts, are not correct, I regroup with me, myself and I, strategizing a brilliant plan to jot down the possible combinations, then check off each one as I try, in vain, each one. What bothers me about the ordeal is that I instinctively know when I get to the third and final number that it doesn't ring true to stop on the unmarked increments between the enumerated markers at 5, 10, 15, 20, etc. My memory doesn't compute that as familiar, yet I also am unable to dote on the antidote.
Eventually, I surrender and go up to the counter to admit my flesh failures. Well, not exactly. I only allow that "My combination lock doesn't work," trying valiantly to leave the not-so-vague notion that it's the lock, not me, that isn't working properly.
I notice a young gym member at the counter who overhears me, and I self-consciously perceive his facial expression to reveal disdain for someone so foolish as a combination-lock-amnesiac such as I.
The young trainer on duty swings open some cabinet doors to look for the industrial-strength metal cutter that is kept nearby, a relief to me as it is admissible evidence that there have been others before me who also suffered the sorrow not of psoriasis but of brain-lockitis. I wonder at that moment if that word, which I believe I must have just made up, is a keyword on the AARP website. If not, I fantasize that when I am a free man -- or at least when my gym tote is a free bag -- I will endeavor to copyright brain-lockitis and then hold out for a seven-figure deal when AARP begs me to buy it. What do they think, I am stupid. That's rhetorical, so I dispensed with the question mark but I may have misplaced the comma.
The gym-rat-in-residence who gets paid a pauperly sum to help helpless members like me can't locate the device used to slice locks (yes, it works on both Nova and Belly). He fetches a colleague who says the tool is in his car, and asks for an umbrella to shield him from the rain. I helpfully offer that I have an umbrella, but it's in the locker I can't open. He apparently didn't hear me because he didn't laugh at that side-splitting show of wit.
Eventually, the first trainer appears at my locker with what looks like a scissor on steroids that has testified before Congress and probably perjured itself, greatly lessening its chances for induction in the Major League Tools Hall of Fame. First, however, not wanting to waste a good luck he doesn't own anyhow, so why should he care, the interlockutor tries to open the lock with a couple of the combinations I've already tried. Maybe a different set of hands, younger hands, stronger mitts than mine, will do the trick. Hah! Locks of lut on that one.
So he must resort to employing the weapon of minor destruction, and as he begins to lever the oversized handles this emits a sound of pain. "Are you alright?" I inquire. "Do you want me to do it?" I add without a scintilla of sincerity, as if I actually wanted to take that task away from him because in me, you're talking to Mr. Nobody Home Depot.
I am kicking myself psychically for stowing away the combination in the bag inside the locker and vow from this day forward, as god is my witness, I will keep the combination on my person when working out, written in the memopad binder I carry around like Linus's blanket.
Panic begins to set in. What is happening to me? My cellphone is in the locker, otherwise I'd be ready to dial a different group of digits -- 911. "Hello, officer. I need emergency help ... I can't open my combination lock! Quick, please, send a patrol car, and, if you don't mind, hold the siren. I have a reputation in this fine community to uphold. I can't afford to look like the idiot I feel like right now."
After attempting several combinations, which I am certain, in my heart of hearts, are not correct, I regroup with me, myself and I, strategizing a brilliant plan to jot down the possible combinations, then check off each one as I try, in vain, each one. What bothers me about the ordeal is that I instinctively know when I get to the third and final number that it doesn't ring true to stop on the unmarked increments between the enumerated markers at 5, 10, 15, 20, etc. My memory doesn't compute that as familiar, yet I also am unable to dote on the antidote.
Eventually, I surrender and go up to the counter to admit my flesh failures. Well, not exactly. I only allow that "My combination lock doesn't work," trying valiantly to leave the not-so-vague notion that it's the lock, not me, that isn't working properly.
I notice a young gym member at the counter who overhears me, and I self-consciously perceive his facial expression to reveal disdain for someone so foolish as a combination-lock-amnesiac such as I.
The young trainer on duty swings open some cabinet doors to look for the industrial-strength metal cutter that is kept nearby, a relief to me as it is admissible evidence that there have been others before me who also suffered the sorrow not of psoriasis but of brain-lockitis. I wonder at that moment if that word, which I believe I must have just made up, is a keyword on the AARP website. If not, I fantasize that when I am a free man -- or at least when my gym tote is a free bag -- I will endeavor to copyright brain-lockitis and then hold out for a seven-figure deal when AARP begs me to buy it. What do they think, I am stupid. That's rhetorical, so I dispensed with the question mark but I may have misplaced the comma.
The gym-rat-in-residence who gets paid a pauperly sum to help helpless members like me can't locate the device used to slice locks (yes, it works on both Nova and Belly). He fetches a colleague who says the tool is in his car, and asks for an umbrella to shield him from the rain. I helpfully offer that I have an umbrella, but it's in the locker I can't open. He apparently didn't hear me because he didn't laugh at that side-splitting show of wit.
Eventually, the first trainer appears at my locker with what looks like a scissor on steroids that has testified before Congress and probably perjured itself, greatly lessening its chances for induction in the Major League Tools Hall of Fame. First, however, not wanting to waste a good luck he doesn't own anyhow, so why should he care, the interlockutor tries to open the lock with a couple of the combinations I've already tried. Maybe a different set of hands, younger hands, stronger mitts than mine, will do the trick. Hah! Locks of lut on that one.
So he must resort to employing the weapon of minor destruction, and as he begins to lever the oversized handles this emits a sound of pain. "Are you alright?" I inquire. "Do you want me to do it?" I add without a scintilla of sincerity, as if I actually wanted to take that task away from him because in me, you're talking to Mr. Nobody Home Depot.
Studley Doright explains to his impatient patient (aka me) that his finger cramps up from a prior injury. I think to myself, "Yeah, yeah, likely story, and one I am not particularly interested in entertaining right this moment. How dare you burden me with whining of no merit when I'm the one standing here in agony from not being able to unlock my own combination. Get on with it, man! A little pain never hurt anyone who was waiting for his locker to be broken into like me, so what's the problem, you disgustingly buff and young stud? No wonder losers in the war against epidermal gravity (ie, sagging skin) like me hate you and everything you stand for!"
Then, suddenly, thwack! The lock is violated, with my blessing, of course. I offer my thanks, and he starts to leave but I stop him to retrieve the split lock that will lock my locker nevermore. I wait until he's out of sight, then quickly search for the scrap of paper inside my gym bag on which is written the combination so super secret not even its owner can conjure it in utmost competence. Yep, just as I thought, Costello. Sure enough, the actual combination turned out to be 15-22 ... 35! I knew that.
I second guess my rash decision to request the services of the lock squad without having first collected my thoughts to arrive at the right combination of digits.
The thirtysomething member who was checking in at the desk when I was requesting relief from my self-imposed dilemma now was at his locker and asked me how I made out with my lock. Having no shame, I told him the truth. He shared with me that after he recently returned from vacation, he blanked out on his ATM pin and had to jump through hoops with the bank to have it reset. I thanked him for that kind offering because "You're a lot younger than me, so at least now I know it isn't necessarily my age."
Then, suddenly, thwack! The lock is violated, with my blessing, of course. I offer my thanks, and he starts to leave but I stop him to retrieve the split lock that will lock my locker nevermore. I wait until he's out of sight, then quickly search for the scrap of paper inside my gym bag on which is written the combination so super secret not even its owner can conjure it in utmost competence. Yep, just as I thought, Costello. Sure enough, the actual combination turned out to be 15-22 ... 35! I knew that.
I second guess my rash decision to request the services of the lock squad without having first collected my thoughts to arrive at the right combination of digits.
The thirtysomething member who was checking in at the desk when I was requesting relief from my self-imposed dilemma now was at his locker and asked me how I made out with my lock. Having no shame, I told him the truth. He shared with me that after he recently returned from vacation, he blanked out on his ATM pin and had to jump through hoops with the bank to have it reset. I thanked him for that kind offering because "You're a lot younger than me, so at least now I know it isn't necessarily my age."
It helps those who don't know me to know that I was inoculated at birth with a phonograph needle, as legend has it (and as an old joke I remember hearing on The Ed Sullivan Show has it), so I typically talk too much, and in that vein proceeded to regale my young acquaintance with my life-worn observation that "We have so many numbers floating around our heads, it's no wonder we forget some of them every now and again, and sometimes again, and even, if you're unlucky with locks, yet again."
Not yet finished with my impromptu lecture, I continued to aver that the thing about combination locks we use frequently is that you don't so much focus on the numbers as on their position on the dial. My waterloo with my unlockable lock was thinking too much about that last number, which tripped me up, instead of intuiting the combination as I do every other time.
On the way out, I am compelled to let my liberator know, "Thanks again. It WAS the lock. Brain lock."
And there you have it, men and women and offspring of the jury. Conclusive proof submitted as Exhibit See? that I didn't even have to wait until turning 60 to experience humankind's rite of passage known since time immemorial as ... drum roll, puh-leeze .. now, where was I?
On the way out, I am compelled to let my liberator know, "Thanks again. It WAS the lock. Brain lock."
And there you have it, men and women and offspring of the jury. Conclusive proof submitted as Exhibit See? that I didn't even have to wait until turning 60 to experience humankind's rite of passage known since time immemorial as ... drum roll, puh-leeze .. now, where was I?
