What Do I Know?

So I'm middle-aged (whatever that means--in the middle--between birth and death?) and have noticed that there are a lot of us out there and that most of us are complaining fairly loudly and somewhat bitterly about the low-level brain damage that goes inevitably with aging.  I've heard quite a few comedians reference it lately and they get me right where I live.

It's the little things I forget.  Mostly short-term memory problems that crop up.  I walk into the bathroom and forget why I'm there.  I'm asked a question at work about something I was just talking about to my boss, and I forget what we decided.  I come up with an idea about a blog and by the time I log in I forget the idea.  I start a sentence and I forget the key word.  I describe a movie and I forget the name of the actor I want to talk about.  I go to the grocery store and forget the key ingredient I need.

I'm not forgetting my address or how to drive or anything truly significant.  Just little things.  A lot of little things.  And when I was younger, maybe until I turned forty, I had a mind like a steel trap.  I remembered everything I ever heard or read or saw.  No longer.

I certainly buy into the premise that I'm not doing a very good job exercising my brain to keep it in shape--I don't do crossword puzzles anymore, I rarely play trivia games now, and I will quickly give up and Google a question that I once might have struggled to answer on my own.  That probably doesn't help me any in the long run.  But the conversations are very entertaining . . . you know, the thing, at the place, with the guy, and the stuff . . .

But along with forgetting what everything is called, I know much more than I ever did before.  So when my friend at work says, "You know that painting in Washington . . . the really famous one . . . " I know exactly which painting he means . . . Ginevra de'Benci's portrait is the only Da Vinci that lives in the United States.  And he says, " . . . and do you know why the back of it is in a glass case?" and I reply instantly, "Of course, that's his emblematic portrait of Ginevra on the back of the poplar panel with a painting of a laurel branch . . . "

On the elevator at work, I overhear three young women laughing about this funny old-fashioned expression that their boss used and I know what it means and its literary origin.  I know all of the musical theatre references on the television shows my kids watch.  I know that William Frawley was funny and had impeccable timing because he was a vaudeville star before playing Lucy's neighbor.  I know what the connection is between Brecht and Shakespeare, to say nothing of why he went to East Germany when he did.  I know how to write a joke and why Vivaldi wrote so many fabulous pieces for bassoon.  I know how to cook and sew and do basic carpentry and plumbing and why the sky is blue and why sourdough is associated with San Francisco.

Now that I'm middle-aged, I know a lot of stuff about this guy and that guy and the place and the thing and the other thing.