I’m starting to wonder if the fortieth decade has anything going for it. While I’m clinging to the notion that 40 is the new 30, 50 the new 40 as espoused by a bevy of filthy rich, heavily photoshopped famous beings gracing our magazines each day, scientists are raining on my parade.
The Whitehall II study as reported in The Guardian says memory loss doesn’t start at 60, as previously thought, but at 45.
No. They can’t be serious. Well these scientists tested 7,000 civil servants over a 10 year period and came to the conclusion your memory is less sharp and your brain begins to lose it’s powers of reasoning and understanding from the age of 45 onwards.
Well doesn’t that just put the pressure on. I thought I had a good 15 years before the old grey matter started to go on me, but no.
Luckily I’m cramming every life ambition into my 44th year because it could be the last for the high functioning tasks.
Perhaps the signs are already there, I know I can’t operate without the diary, if it ain’t in the book it ain’t happening.
While I’ve never been good with names I have noticed an increased vagueness now when running into people – I know them from somewhere but where might that be? Ever had those conversations where you are desperately trying not to give away the fact you have no bloody idea who you are talking too. How are you? What have you been up to? Going away this year? Keeping it as generic as possible for fear you may disclose your poor recall.
There’s a daily search for my keys. Surely it can’t be that hard to remember where you put such a vital component of your life?
I also have a propensity for losing this weeks most vital piece of paperwork, right now it’s Hippie Child’s book list for school, she swears she gave it to me, I have absolutely no memory of the moment. In the past it’s been prescriptions, permission notes, loan applications, you name it I’ve lost it. Fortunately, my poor housekeeping saves us, given I never throw anything out the missing items always reappear, but after the stress attack to their whereabouts.
Mr Shambles has already hit the 45 mark and the signs are obvious. Send him to the shop for four items, he comes back with three (always missing the one thing I wanted). His turn for the pick-ups and drop-offs – need to write it down for him, otherwise the dog ends up at the 11th birthday party and Princess Child gets a check-up at the vet. Anniversaries? Birthdays? What they happen EVERY year? Although come to think of it he’s had this affliction long before 45.
I’m also deeply worried about those beauties over in Hollywood. Some of them are only having their first child at 45. Diminishing memory, coupled with the normal pregnancy brain and sleep deprivation they haven’t got a chance in hell.
Postscript: Mr Shambles just reminded me he isn’t 45 until April – I’ve become a poster child for the research – obviously forgot the age of my husband.