Baseball bat? Meet middle-aged me

 

mid life disaster

I am one absent-minded mother fucker. Give me a task and my mind will wander to other unrelated things like what should I have for lunch (while I’m devouring breakfast), my ever-evolving and growing Netflix binge-watch list and asking Carl if I put on deodorant today who has no idea what I do all day and yet I expect him to know my every action. Do better, man.

Even when I was younger, my parents rolled their eyes when they asked me to vacuum and it took me one hour to just plug in the damned thing because I would stare at the bathroom mirror in the dark and wonder if I dare mutter the name Bloody Mary three times and forget what I was supposed to be doing.

And maybe it’s my social anxiety, or plain old poor speaking skills, or a combination of idiocy and low brain function, but I also have difficulty speaking to others.

How have I made it to middle-age? Stumbling groggily through daily obstacles with crumbs on face.

With a foot barely into 2017, things are only getting worse.  My vocabulary recall has become non-existent. Words I try to read and pronounce come out as jumbled grunts. My days are filled with non-verbal gestures and my kids shaking their heads, astounded by the awful display of communication.

The other day, I tried to say documentary. Emphasizing the wrong syllables, I tried over and over again to say this simple word and kept failing. Then I walked into the garage wondering if now would be a good time to make that industrial cart coffee table.

One word I don’t have a problem saying: chardonnay.

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