Good Company

Some days, I’m on fire. Snappy comebacks, lightning recall. I dazzle even myself. The ocean called, and they’re running out of shrimp! Other days, I’m hopeless. I can’t remember the word “duvet” so instead I call it “that bed thingy.” The person who has, just three seconds ago, introduced himself as Mark, I call Rob. Then, there are the days I find myself babbling to Charlie as I walk him, coaxing him to make a pee or poo, even when people are within earshot, and I no longer even pretend to be talking on my phone.

I wonder if this is my brain sputtering out like a jet engine after hitting a flock of geese. I generally manage to stop myself from making shit up entirely when I open my mouth, but the operative word in this statement is generally, close-seconded by entirely.

I am hoping that I have spent enough time ingratiating myself to folks that they will humor me in my dotage. Actually, I know my family and close friends will, but what of the stranger whose house I wander into when I get lost on my way to the dry cleaners?

I can’t worry about that now. I need every available brain cell to focus on acting appropriately in the moment. I also really don’t mind that much, because pretty much everyone I hang out with anywhere near my age shares the same leaky vessel. And that’s fine! It can get pretty jolly up in here, with all the filling in each other’s aphasiac gaps and laughing at each other’s weird malarkey. It’s our job, make that our honor, to generously cover each other’s butts.

In the end, whether we are still razor-sharp matters way less than if we are still kind. The hope is, when we wander into that stranger’s house in search of the dry cleaners, we have created a benevolent universe that welcomes us in with a smile, and stays with us until we land safely.