Because I'm 18...and I like it.

What My Brain Thinks I Look Like

Last time I was in Omaha, stomping grounds of my youth, I didn’t see a single person I knew. Then I realized I was searching the faces of 18-year-olds. Duh. I’m in my 50’s now, and if the Universe works the way I think it does, my old cronies would be in their 50’s, too.

As it turns out, my time-warp may not be vanity or delusion. In my post-stroke research, I came across this theory: because neurons don’t “mature,” we often feel (internally, at least) younger than we really are, usually young adult-ish. This explains why we’re so shocked when we see that old person in the mirror—the one with the road-map wrinkies, the liver spots (is that one shaped like the a jackalope?), and the swinging basset-hound jowls.

What I Really Look Like

But BS was a giant bucket of ice water that woke me from my illusion of youth. I went back to work half-time last week (I teach English at our Little Town university), after being home since October. My kind and generous department Chair had bent over backward to help me ease back in—I have two back-to-back 50-minute classes on MWF and TTh at home for rest. And both classes are in the same room, so I don’t have to drag Leftie the Leg around campus. Two short hours in class, three days a week in the same room. Cake, right?

What My Brain Thinks I Look Like

Wrong. Immediately, BS reminded me that I am not my former 18-year-old superhuman self. In fact, Day 1 of class was like having an energy suck-meter in my head: Stay upright. Tick. Keep your left leg from drifting away from your body. Tick. Focus both eyes on the same thing. Tick. What the hell is that word you just said? Tick. Don’t you dare drop these handouts. Tick. Stay awake. Tick. Act like everything’s normal. Tick. Breathe. Tick. And, while all of this is going on inside my head, I’m also trying to get 44 skeptical late-teeners excited about literature. Ticktickticktick…

Let’s do the math, shall we? Clunky muscles and body’s uncertain position in space + awkward “tipping” (BS damaged my sense of balance) + attempt to foist love of words on kids who would rather text pics of their new UGGs + a month of course prep + high anxiety over going back to work = crash & burn. I was sound asleep in my La-Z-Girl by 8 p.m. the first night of classes. I woke up at 11 to go to bed and slept till 8 the next morning. Dang near comatose.

What I Really Look Like

But yesterday, Day 2 of classes, things were a little easier. I felt a little less brain-scrambled and more relaxed in class, I didn’t drop anything, I had a decent (slow as molasses) workout after school, and I stayed awake last night till 10 p.m.! Ah, hope endureth! I just have to be patient. I have to trust I’ll get steadily stronger. I have to get better at asking for help. I have to be more honest with myself and others about the extent of BS’s malicious tinkering (yes, dammit, my speech and word recall were affected). I have to remember that I’m not 18. I have to admit it isn’t “One Toke Over the Line, sweet Jesus” anymore—it’s one stroke over the line. Sweet. Fricking. Geezus. ;)