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I am now putting olive oil on my pancakes, in my coffee, sipping it from a wine glass, after reading that it is beneficial in holding dementia at bay. Don't ask for proof, I believe what I want to believe, like most other people my age. I don't want to spend my last years babbling in a seniors' warehouse; I plan to do stand-up comedy until I'm 97 and then be shot cleanly by a jealous husband whose wife told him she wished he were more like me. Paradise for us Episcopalian liberals will probably be a dorm where we'll sit around and read the same copy of the New York Times over and over. No bliss, just boredom.
Do I sound demented to you, dear reader? Tell me if I do.
Meanwhile I'm alone in a New York apartment; my sweetie's back in Minnesota, hanging out with artsy people, engaged in witty conversation over glasses of exquisite sauvignon blanc, discussing the merits of Messiaen vs. Saint-Saëns, while her pathetic pal sits worrying about going gaga while sipping olive oil.
Is this how I imagined my life would be back when I was your age, kiddos?
No, I thought I would grow up and be distinguished — I got an honorary doctorate long long ago, and okay, it was from a little Lutheran school in Minnesota, but still. I looked good in the gown and a professor with a genuine doctorate read the citation, which made me sound like a combination of Jonas Salk, Will Rogers, and St. Julia the Uncomplaining. I never won a literary award but Stephen Sondheim once walked up and told me he enjoyed my limericks. Modest man that I am, I didn't even snap a selfie of us. I was interviewed once on the BBC and I don't mean the Boston Boys Club, I mean the one in London with the ladies and gentlemen with the excellent accents, accents unavailable to the son of a postal clerk in Anoka, Minnesota.
I was forced into hard labor when I was ten years old, sent to the cruel Fred Peterson, a farmer just west of us, where I slaved in his cornfields, hoeing endless rows in the blazing sun, and then picking the corn, and then picking his potatoes, a heavy burlap bag over my skinny shoulders. My back is still stooped from the weight, and when I go over to someone's house for dinner, I notify them that if corn or potatoes are served, I am likely to be violently ill. As a result, guess what: I'm never invited. I long for a cheeseburger but I pull up under the Golden Arches and smell the french fries and I am blinded by tears and have to lie down with a cold compress on my forehead.
It happened back in the Fifties, long before young people were allowed to choose their gender, and I was forced to be a man even though I didn't understand football, didn't care for dirty jokes, had no interest in cars or guns or poker, had no taste for beer, and I have been stuck in this gender ever since. Men avoid me, and I try to be friends with women and they mistake it for flirtation and turn away in disgust. It's a sad story and do I complain? No, I feel gratitude. I was forced to be grateful when I was a kid. I was fed wretched food and Mother said, "Children in China would be grateful to have that macaroni and cheese." And look at what happened to those Chinese children. They're grown up and prosperous and have advanced electronics and it's not a democracy so they don't have to deal with politicians.
No, it's been a hard life and I didn't mention the time I was kidnapped by coyotes. But I'm grateful. I tell myself, "It could be worse. I could get old and lose my mind." The other day, I forgot the word "cognitive" for hours, I thought, "Alert? Informed? Awake? Attentive? Cerebral? Incognito?" The very word for the skills I'm scared of losing. And then I made a salad with olive oil and vinegar dressing and the word came back. It wasn't the vinegar. It was the olive oil. I read that somewhere. Maybe a newspaper, maybe online.
Garrison Keillor is an author and radio personality. His latest book is "Cheerfulness". Buy it at a 38% discount! by clicking here. Sales help fund JWR.