Next I'll Be Watching Wheel of Fortune

Something about my computer/USB cord/camera is making me want to cry. Like the rest of the world, I have a love/hate relationship with technology and right now it is HATE.

I wasn't going to post about that, but this post will be picture-free due to what is probably my fault, but I'm going to take the low road and blame it on inanimate objects like cameras.

There.

I feel much better.

So I realize I've already dedicated a few blogs to the touchy topic of aging.

Not aging in the sense of sagging skin and wrinkles, but in the sense of "oh-my-gosh-my-life-now-consists-of-more-than-eating-queso-and-watching-late-night-TV."

As you can tell, serious stuff.

Brian Williams and the Nightly News never report on the things I'm going to discuss, but frankly, I feel these are just as relevant to growing old gracefully.

Do you know what I had to buy this week?

{insert picture trapped on my harddrive}

A pillbox.

No, not a cute pillbox hat in which you might mistake me for a modern-day, blonde, Jackie O, who picks up her kids from school in a smart pink skirt and tailored jacket.

But a For Realsies Ugly Blue Plastic Pillbox with the days of the week on it.

Earlier this week, I had to get a prescription refilled. I only take one medication and I looked at the date of the last refill when I got online to order another round.

July.

And the container held exactly one month's worth of pills.

So you might deduce that I skipped a day or twelve somewhere in the last three months. 

And from what I hear, the medicine doesn't work unless you actually take it.

But here's the problem...I am supposed to take the drugs both morning and evening. That is a heckuva lot of remembering to do for someone who has to sniff her armpits each and every day to remember if she applied deodorant (or not.)

(I also keep a backup in the glove box because some mornings I don't remember to remember until I am on the road.)

(And you know what they say: Deodorant applied sloppily at a stoplight is better than not applying any at all.)

To dig deeper into my memory issues, the problem wasn't that I just forgot to take the medicine altogether.

I'd stand there at the bathroom counter trying to remember if I merely thought about taking the medicine or if I actually did take the medicine.

And if I came to the conclusion that I did take it, I worked up a sweat attempting to recall if the memory of taking the medication was of it today or yesterday. Was I remembering taking it a few minutes ago? Or last night? Or yesterday morning? Or in August?

Out of fear of overdose (which clearly, isn't likely, but I don't want to die prematurely) I skipped it altogether.

For weeks at a time.

So all that to say, the blue plastic pillbox is both ugly and lame, but (and this is the important part) MIGHTY EFFECTIVE!

I've already taken three pills in a row. You might call it a Memory Trifecta.

Brad saw Baby Blue sitting on the counter and started making fun of me right away.

And then I gave him even more ammunition at dinner.

Because you know what else I do that is apparently for the aged?

Reuse and wash out Ziploc bags.

{cue photo of storage drawer with tons of used Ziplocs}

{cue laugh track}

The snack and sandwich sizes do not affect my senioritis;  it's just the gallon size that I can scarcely bring myself to throw away.

My mom passed down this geriatric sickness. I clearly remember seeing Gallon Size Ziplocs that had similar properties of crumpled tissue paper all over the kitchen. And without a doubt, they were good for one more use.

There is no rational reason for this behavior, but it feels painful to throw one away.

I don't even know how much money this practice "saves", because I get the big pack at Costco once every few years. But subconsciously, the bags must have similar properties to gold and I can't let them slip away before they have holes in them or no longer zip and lock.

The pillbox and the Ziplocs are just minor signs of aging, but when I start getting my hair set once a week at the beauty operator, please stage an intervention.