Monday, July 10, 2006


There are some cool things about getting older (well, a few... okay, one or two). One of the less cool things is that my attention span seems to be shrinking in inverse proportion to the number of pages I accumulate in that story I call "My Life".

I just spent the last hour mowing about 1/3 acre or so of grass. As I returned to the house, I could smell a hot, grilly aroma and thought my neighbours were firing up the barbie... til I got to my kitchen. There on the stove, sizzling and popping away angrily on a red hot burner, was my -- EEEEEK! -- (empty) kettle. I'd put it on before I went outside, whenever that was. The decision to mow had been unplanned; I just can't walk by the lawn mower without yanking the cord, yelling "WOOHOO!" when it fires up, and cutting a nice neat swath through some long grass. Then I just keep going until something else distracts me (I see some weeds. Something needs watering. Someone jangles some keys in front of me.) I can go outside intending to put out the garbage and not return for hours. It's sick.

When things like this happen, I understand why some seniors opt for "rest homes". I'm still quite a ways from being a senior, but if I'm this flakey now, I shudder to think what my life will be like at 65. I kind of envision myself stumbling from one disaster to the next in an endless landscape of chimney fires, overflowing bathtubs and exploding kettles. And although I won't become an inmate in one of those seniors' joints, I might do well to consider weariing some kind of fashionable electronic monitoring bracelet on my ankle. If I can choose the colour.