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Fifteen years ago I wrote a piece about fraying at the edges in which I imagined a piece of linen fraying and becoming softer with each laundering—and of course I related this image to the fact of aging. There we were (I was) with my edges becoming less defined, my sharp outlines blurring. And so forth. I thought myself so very clever.
That was what I saw and felt at the time. Now, fifteen years later, I see where that was heading. It is no longer a question of edges. I am fraying at my very core. If I can continue this metaphor, the core of me is disentangling. Picture a woven scrap of fabric and then imagine it with frayed edges, that's part of it. But take it further. Unpick the weaving itself (yes, kind of like Penelope, but off the loom) and when you have imagined this fully, you will be left with no scrap of fabric at all but a pile of loose threads.
Oh, this is simply too much to write about. Let's go to Side B. Look at me: strong and healthy, buttressed by potions and lotions and tinctures as needed, cushioned by the love of husband, children, friends. Not having to skimp at the end of every month as I once did. Provided with endless opportunities for entertainment (but remember Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death?).
This woman is indeed lucky. Even as a pile of unpicked threads she's well taken care of. And I must say this business of watching oneself age is endlessly fascinating (though, face it, you have probably noticed that I find most things about myself endlessly fascinating).
My mind changes in a random way. It loses words until I despair of ever being able to do another crossword puzzle. And then, out of nowhere will pop a bizarre word I didn't even know I knew. The clue was something like "the crossbar of the harness that attaches a team of horses or oxen to a cart." Or something like that—a bit more precise, I'm sure. And my fading, lazy mind chose that occasion to show off, pouncing and plucking from the ether (and without a single clue of a letter to prompt it): "whiffletree." I haven't heard the term in years, and it was certainly never an active part of my life. Despite what you might think, I am not a child of the pre-automobile era. So there it is, in case you need it: a whiffletree as an example of the unreliability of the mind.
I can find whiffletree, but I can't remember what I had for dinner last night—even though I'm sure it was remarkable.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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