Isn’t it enough that I’ve lost my memory–the indignity of stopping in mid-sentence to try
and retrieve the next three words vanished from the string coming from my brain? Then there’s the look on the face of person I’d just walked up to and can’t remember why.
The final blow was delivered by my pantyhose when their memory also went missing and they fell to my knees taking my slacks as prisoner. I realize that they’ve languished in the drawer for several years unstimulated by the challenge of my hips, but there was no date of expiration, no note of obsolescence—they just quit. I tried three packages of knee-highs. Stretched and slipped them over my feet and onto my calves, but they didn’t grip either—just flopped like a teenager’s week old gym socks.
Two scenarios come to me—one more frightening than the other—an ill wind blew through my bedroom selecting only my mind and my pantyhose to steal, or I have become unhuggable from lack of use!
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