By the time the four of us were seated I was so hungry that I was ready to gnaw off my arm. I wanted to order quickly but since the menu had very tiny print and the restaurant had very dim lights I could not read a word. Too late, I remembered that I had left my reading glasses at home and I was annoyed because although I have reading glasses in every room of the house and although I had written myself a note I still forgot.
My vanity would not permit me to borrow someone else’s reading glasses, even though our friends were my age and would have understood my plight. Instead, since I know the menu pretty much by heart, I went from memory and I was deciding between the chicken and the pork. As the server approached I remembered that I did not like the side dishes served with the pork, so I told the server, “I’ll have the chicken, please, and a small Caesar salad.”
The salads came out and in due time were followed by the entrees. The waiter put a plate down in front of me with a flourish, and said, “The gentleman is having the pork tenderloin with polenta and sautéed spinach.’
I sighed. I hate when a restaurant messes up my order, which happens with alarming frequency these days. Generally, I just eat what they put in front of me, but I dislike polenta and I detest sautéed spinach. “I’m sorry,” I said evenly, “I ordered the chicken.”
The server smiled broadly. “No, Sir,” he said, “you ordered the pork and polenta.” I was about to take a firm stand when my partner said, “You really did order the pork.”
I was taken aback. “Really?” I said, and our friends across the table nodded in unison. “I don’t like polenta or sautéed spinach,” I told the waiter, who shrugged. Our friends shook their heads sadly. My partner shrugged too; “I thought it was an odd thing for you to order,” he said.
Embarrassed, I made a careless little joke about having a senior moment and ate my pork with polenta and spinach, which, by the way, were outstanding. Deep inside though, I was a little concerned, because I seem to be getting more and more forgetful lately. For example, I’ll drive to the office and have no recollection of crossing Federal Highway, or I’ll be working in the backyard and go into the house to get something and forget what I wanted by the time I am inside.
Apparently I am not unique. Earlier that week I ran into a slightly older friend at Home Depot and I mentioned to her my fear that I am losing my mind. “Welcome to my world,” she said. “I turned my house upside down last week looking for a bag of cat food. I knew I brought it home from Publix but couldn’t find it. I found it a couple of days later in the dryer.”
Knowing that I would have company when I slipped into senility was oddly comforting so I changed the subject. “What brings you to Home Depot?” I asked.
She sighed. “I wish I knew,” she said. “I forgot to write it down, so I’m walking up and down the aisles hoping something jogs my memory.”
I remembered this as we finished our dinners and was feeling better by the time the dessert menus came, so, vanity be damned, I asked my partner if I could borrow his reading glasses. He gave me a weird look. “Why?” he asked. “Yours are on top of your head.”