I remember a conversation a friend and I had about her mother who was suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s. “She’s slipping,” she told me. “I can tell. Yesterday I was putting some clothes away in her closet and I saw where she’d bought five dresses, exactly alike. Identical dresses. Same size, make, color. Every time she goes shopping she sees the same dress, likes it, and buys it.”
I hope no one looks in my closet.
This morning I was looking for my go-to pair of black pants. Not the velour dress pants, not the ones that go with the matching blazer. Not the ankle length, capri, jean cut, denim, jersey, summer weight, wool crepe or gabardine ones either. My go-to pants. The ones that are nice, forgiving, and seem to fit regardless of what I’ve overeaten or dieted my way into.
There are mornings, like this one, when the coffee maker explodes, the dog wakes up an hour before the alarm, I can’t go back to sleep and I need to wash my hair that the go-to pants are in order. I know better than to ask my mate if he’s seen them. We’d have to play a rousing game of “No, not those” and do I really want him (or anyone) to know how many black pants I own?
As I search through and dismiss several, seemingly similar, black pants, I think of my friend’s mom. Maybe she wasn’t symptomatic … Perhaps she was just simplifying?