Boomers, Do You Know Where Your Car Keys Are?

Boomers, Do You Know Where Your Car Keys Are?

The bad news is out. Depending on who has demented genes, a lot of us are going to leave this world as idiots?

A new study targets a whopping 18% of us who are going to end up babbling away our end days as our brains turn into fried brains, a delicacy I can vaguely remember my mother serving up to us kids back in the mid 20th Century.

By one study, the Alzheimer’s counters predict10 million of us are headed off to baby-land.

Frankly, I am opposed to these statistics. The most recent research predicts that one in eight of us poor boomers are destined for dementia, the Mother of all Miseries. Five million of us are already babbling. By 2030, we’ll be up to 8 Mill. By 2050 we’ll have about 11-16 million babblers needing help with digestion and elimination. Not good, everybody, not good.

So it really isn’t about losing keys, is it? After all, we just forgot where they are. That doesn’t mean our brain is mush, or does it? Instead, we should be asking who is our President. When my mother was asked, she replied, “What a silly question.” When asked what day it was, she replied, “Don’t you know?” Mother was good with her crafty questioner. I’m sure the oblique answers reminder her of her 7th graders who also didn’t know the answers, but came up with smart replies. One recent student of mine, when asked a Socratic question, replied, “Sorry, I was zoning out. What was it you asked?” Okay, then, that’s it. Alzheimer’s could be a cover for simply poorly phrased questions.

For the record, I am completely opposed to ever being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Those most likely to be diagnosed are those who have two parents who never knew what hit them. That would include me as both my parents had some kind of dementia. So let’s not take this lying down in our bedpans! People, we have to go on strike. We have to write to Congress. Any district will do, as the disease does not favor red or blue states, or labor, or farming, or industry. Let’s take to the streets, People. All of us need to march to our local pharmacy and demand a genetic recoding kit. Go ahead, say it, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!” We have to work together, insisting that we keep our memories, even if we want to forget a few of them.

Yet if it does seem inevitable that a meteor will land in our brains, then I’ll settle for a compromise. How does this sound…a postponement, a lengthy delay, a “I almost forget about infecting you with the plague” condition? Here’s what I will agree to, possibly with amendments: I will agree to “onset” no earlier than five minutes before my “end times.” I would prefer to receive the seven awful years of existence while I am already in a coma. That’s reasonable? Numbers always tell the truth, don’t they? We can’t fight the numbers can we? Here’s a plan, concocted in the last three minutes, for making this work, even if you have awful genes:

1. Start talking about oatmeal with your significant others. The therapy will be meaningful, and besides, you can also make cookies from the little flakes.
2. Read a book, a challenging book, a book about something you know nothing about, a book that might open your mind to something you know nothing about.
3. Take in a play, even a silly one. Doesn’t have to be Shakespeare.
4. Start playing with numbers. Try it with cards, or with puzzles.
5. Memorize all the queens and kings of England, beginning with (let’s make it easy)Elizabeth I (1558-1603).
6. Hit a ball, or ride a bike, or move the legs on a track, or path. Start swimming!
7. Listen to “Countdown with Keith Olbermann” for a week. Bet you can’t stop after a week.
8. Try holding Salamba Sirsasana (head stand) for 2 minutes.
9. Okay, why don’t you add some suggestions…?

I’m going home now, as I am so distraught about this. But where did I park my car?