It finally happened.
I woke up, rolled out of bed and forced aging muscles and bone to stand erect.
Once I was adequately balanced I shuffled into my usual Sunday routine. By that I mean I began my lazy, slow-mo day.
I get the required cup of coffee and head for the indentation in the sofa — my spot. There’s a waking up process. Check the phone for emails, messages, headlines and a quick Facebook scan.
Then I grab the remote. It’s time to check out the Sunday morning news talk.
But. Wait. My wife is in her home office and I hear her working the phone, which is a bit puzzling. Why is she working on a Sunday?
So, coffee in hand, I check it out.
“What’s up? You slept in a bit,” she says.
“I’ve been up a while,” I lie, and then ask, “What are you doing?”
She explains there’s a story she has to write. She’s clearly busy. Must be important and pressing. So I say, “Okay,” and leave.
This was a screaming clue but I was oblivious. I’m thinking it’s too bad she has to work on a Sunday a.m., but it happens.
I nestle back into the couch and punch the TV on and hit my list for recorded shows. Time to watch the news talkies.
But nothing is recorded. Another clue. But ... I am simply befuddled, wondering what went wrong. I go to the regular channel listings to see if the recording failed. And the truth is there.
The Sunday shows are not on at all. Because ... it’s Tuesday.
And there you have it. Proof that I am old ... and retired. (Make that more proof. You remember my getting out of bed process, right?)
I am not making this up. I trampled on all those in-your-face clues and still did not know it was Tuesday. (I’d already gone through a Monday!)
I have no idea why I thought it was Sunday. It just felt that way. I could blame this on retirement.
When you retire you do not throw away the calendar. You still need to know what day it is. There are appointments to track, of course, and never ever forget “Garbage Day.”
But days do blend together. Then weeks. Then months.
My wife still works so weekends are special. But, for me, days melt together. In fact, Monday is my Sunday.
Sunday is a big part of the weekend off, but there is that little fact that pinches you all day: You have to work tomorrow.
Not for me, though. (It’s a wonderful feeling, by the way.) Monday is my Sunday. In other words, I use that day to build energy for the rest of the week.
I think about the things I should be doing. Just think. Not do.
I know. I know. I have lots to do and Monday should not be ignored. (My thoughts after knowing my wife’s thoughts.)
So ... you can imagine my bit of shock at not knowing what day it was.
I cannot blame retirement humdrum. I’m actually busy with writing projects and research.
So ... is it a bigger threat? You know ... aging ... loss of memory.
I know forgetfulness is a normal part of aging. Yes, I have walked into a room and suddenly forgot why I was there. I know many others have done the same.
But my Sunday confusion lasted longer than it should have. It felt strange. Unusual.
I will accept it as a reminder to keep a watchful eye on memory lapses. Something each of us should do as we get older.
But ... for now I am calling a glitch.
And I’m going to blame it on the pandemic. For a year and counting I’ve been hiding, staying secluded from the outside world.
Let’s call it hibernating. Think about it.
When a big fuzzy bear rumbles out after months of light slumber and shoves his nose into the air, do you think he knows what day it is?
Yep. I blame it on pandemic hibernation.
And, whatever day it is, I am so ready to leave the cave.
LONNY CAIN is the retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa and was a reporter for The Herald-News in the 1970s. Email to lonnyjcain@gmail.com or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.