I can just hear my “friends” — and many others for that matter — saying, “Finally, it took him 81 years to recognize what we’ve all known for a very long time, and have often told him so to his face.” Even my kids have intimated it in not very delicate terminology at times. Others are probably mumbling to themselves about hoping I might change my ways and become a “gentleman.” My first response to those statements is, “Forget it man. I’m from “The Bronx.”

But my second response refers to a different interpretation of the title of this essay and it goes like this: “Yup, I’m a loser alright, and what’s more, whether you like it or not, most of you will also join the club if you’re lucky enough to reach my age, 81, if you’re not a member already that is.”

The seed was sown early in my youth. When I was eight years old, dad took me to Davega on Fordham Road. (That should stir some memories for you Bronx guys if your hippocampus still has some functional neurons working.) He bought me a brand new baseball mitt. That night I oiled it, put a baseball in the pocket and tied it up. I proceeded to leave it in the schoolyard the very next day, and it disappeared. He gave me a lecture and bought me another one, along with a Louisville Slugger. I forgot the glove again and the bat cracked on its debut at bat. No more baseball gear until I could get one with my allowance- which was 2 cents a day at the time.

The art of losing has many facets, and the first sign of “Loseritis” or what we psychologists refer to as AAMI — Age Associated Memory Impairment — occurred during my final year as a professor at a local college. I was lecturing in an advanced course in Learning Theory about one of my favorite experiments in the field and having a great time. (I’m not sure about the students. They may have been writing letters home.) When I wanted to cite the names of the psychologists who conducted the research I couldn’t remember their names. I had lectured about this groundbreaking study for several years for heaven’s sake. It bothered me so much, I excused myself for a couple of minutes, ran to my office, and recovered the names. There was no internet at that time. (The students were still writing their letters when I got back.)

Since that occurred, countless other incidents have infected my thoughts and behavior. I’ll briefly mention a few more, which I used to try to excuse with humor and embarrassment, but which now cause anxiety and anger.

The number of times where I lost the memory of where I left my phone in the  house is  enormous and growing faster than our national debt. I have no other phone or tech device to buzz it. Here’s an idea for an enterprising college, high school, or even sixth grade graduate to make millions. Program some app or come up with a contraption where you have a button on your desk that will cause your phone to ring, dance, and do the twist when you press it.

I have lived in Westhampton nigh on 42 years now and have lost my way home several times. I had to use GPS to find the front door. Well, it was nighttime after all. (Pretty lame I know.) The other day I lost all sense of time. I couldn’t find my wristwatch and went around the house looking for it for several minutes. It was in my hand.

Here’s a good example of where I temporarily (maybe not so temporarily) lost my mind. I peeled a banana in order to add some slices to my Cheerios. I ended up slicing several pieces into the garbage instead.

Look, we’ve all lost our keys, forgotten where we parked the car, missed appointments
despite incessant, annoying and useless reminder calls, texts, and emails, but if we’re going to be honest with ourselves we must admit that the number of these incidents increase like a power function as we age. That’s why sales of some of these snake oils advertised in the media which claim to improve memory, with no scientific evidence to support these claims, are booming.

To all my senior “friends” who rejoiced upon reading the opening line of this essay, “Welcome to the ‘Losers Club.’” To those who have not reached their “Golden Years,” start saving to pay the “Club” dues. They’re steep.

To quote the lyrics of a song sung by Pete Seeger: “How do I know my youth is all spent?My get up and go has got up and went. But in spite of it all I’m able to grin and think of the places my get up has been… But never you laugh, I don’t mind at all. I’d rather be huffing than not puff at all.”

Jonathan Kahane lives in Westhampton.