My failing memory has given me many gifts, and I am grateful. I am grateful not to remember slights suffered in high school (or those that I committed, and I hope they were few and minor), missed opportunities in college (David Jacobsen!) and pure-D stupidity practiced on a daily basis as a mini-adult (Andersen Consulting, the McKee Years). But, in my aged state, I find myself most grateful for this: that sometimes, late at night, that wonky, spotty memory compels me to drive down a dark and twisty road at speed to the far-away grocery store before they close so that I might buy the one dog food, which I forgot to buy earlier today, that Russell Jenkins finds acceptable. Ah, the open road! The thrill of the chase! Ten minutes to get to a store that’s 12 minutes away!
And that gift would be enough in and of itself, but I am doubly blessed that it is often made greater when it magically pairs with my other old lady frailties — poor eyesight and general high-strungness — to heighten the experience of said dark and twisty road on which I’m driving in a hurry by making every blowing plastic bag appear as if t’were a possum running for my tires, every wriggly bush appear as if it were a bird ready to take flight right into my windshield, and every twittering leaf seem to be the silhouette of a baby deer ready to bolt directly into my path. Some people bemoan the failings of their bodies and senses as they get older. For me, the whole thing is terribly exciting. Allons-y, indeed.
Also, you guys, Russell Jenkins is trying to kill me with this food bullshizz. Let the authorities know if I don’t turn up for a few days. He did it. He may not have “done” it, but he “did” it. Driving at this time of night, to avoid the one-eyed death stare in the morning. Just terrible. He knows what he’s doing.