Zoe couldn’t talk yesterday, but this morning we caught up. Unlike many of my friends and family these days, Zoe and I occupy the same time zone, so this doesn’t happen much.
Fast forward 150 minutes; epic – even for us. We touched all bases; our work, families, mutual friends, political and social concerns. Then, for fun, we skimmed back over my notes from our past year’s conversations.
Yes, I keep notes, chronological and color coded – on everything.
The happiest part of this old habit is getting to see so many details actually are accurately recorded.
So… you may be thinking.
So, my lesson today addresses how my amazing, adult sons more frequently than ever suggest I’m either confused about statements from previous talks or I wasn’t listening to them.
In all fairness, from my trusty notebook, our typical conversations appear compressed into time restraints and thus multi-directional, but though the subjects get jumbled among various categories, I pen the statements accurately. Innately defensive, though days or weeks may have lapsed, I am rectified. My notes serve me well.
And so, on this down slope of mid-life this is a kind of a big deal. Modern medicine has forced us to minor in self-diagnosis so that especially the savvy peri-senior is watchful for symptoms of dementia, senility and a host of diseases and distresses.
Today I am happy to report that empirically, according to my notes, Zoe and I are in good shape; at least between our ears!