Signs of Decay

I’m worried about me.

OK, I get it. Everyone worries about themselves, whether it’s about vanity, health, relationships or wealth. There are myriad other things that can cause anxiety.

But this is about me, the most important human in the world, living or dead. Well, the most important person to me anyway, if not to anyone else.

But signs are there. Inch by blithering inch, my behavior has changed. Where once I was carefree, fickle and dubious, I’m now a shadow of myself.

And I question my stability. For example, I now obsessively rotate things. And I’m not talking tires on my Forester.

I alternate my socks, spatulas and underwear. The artwork on my walls gets swapped back and forth. My daily naps fluctuate from morning to afternoon and back. I even rotate my three-for-a-dollar Walmart flatware.

I worry me. Has my father’s dementia caught up with me? Or has living alone with cats ground me down?

But at least I’m singing in the prime of my senility. As Louis Armstrong crooned, “I got it bad and that ain’t good.”