Kid Amnesiac

OK, now I’m getting my feelings hurt. In my last post about geriatric motherhood, I reported my discovery that I have developed a vestibular balance disorder. I wasn’t too bothered about it because, as I wrote then, giving up swinging seemed a small thing.

I’ve laughed at or blown off some other signs of aging, too. I have adjusted to no longer being able to eat raw garlic. I happily pay good money to have my hair colored so that the temples match the top. I can handle my fading athletic prowess, as I never had much/any to begin with. And it was with good humor that I ditched any eye makeup with glimmer to it, realizing that what once looked fresh and young now looked old and desperate.

But in the past two weeks, I’ve discovered that I can no longer effectively knit and watch basketball at the same time, and that is no small loss. There are few things in life I enjoy as much as a weekend triple-header, a few cups of tea and/or glasses of wine, and a good knitting project. Knit a little, sip a little, look up for highlights, score changes, etc., repeat for hours. I’ve gone to bed on more than one Sunday with a full bladder, a sore tush, and hands so stiff I could barely change my clothes. Good times!

Last week, a self-imposed deadline to finish the afghan my Aunt Marcia was working on when she died coincided with the NBA playoffs. This is the first year in a while that a lack of TV, a caffeine and alcohol prohibition, and a need to work at night hasn’t kept me from indulging in my preferred pastime, so I settled onto my couch with a glass of wine, a heap of knitting, and high hopes.

The reality was a bit different. I knitted a little, I sipped a little, and when I looked up to check the score I could only make out a blur. What was that? 60-43? 80-73? 68-78? By the time the white letters at the bottom of my screen came into focus, the score had changed and I forgot where I left off knitting. Similarly, I had a hard time following the players. It used to be I could look up, catch the number on the back of a jersey, and immediately know who just threw the great shot, the brick, or the pass. Again, by the time the jersey came into focus, the ball was out of the player’s hands.

It’s not that I can’t see my TV. I can. I can also see my knitting just fine. But whereas my eyes used to adjust immediately from near to distant viewing, now it takes a while for things to come into focus. It’s kind of like changing from an incandescent bulb to compact fluorescent. The focus is still there: but you have to endure a few seconds of doubt before it shows up.

My consolation, if you can call it that, is that the afghan is now finished, I’m not watching any more hoops once the Eastern finals are over (I hate the Lakers so much I simply cannot watch them), and I need to put in some more nights at work and on the house.