Gallows humor on aging

Once before, I mentioned that I wouldn't mind being a stand-up comedienne some day. As a sideline.

Why didn't I have this idea sooner? The drawback now is that I would have to stand up.

Here are some jokes I made up and emailed to my daughter to make sure they're postable. She wrote back:

This is professional-level humor!! It is funny!!!

Here goes:

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I have forgotten more than I remember. I have forgotten what I’ve forgotten. But where is the justice? I can’t remember the name of the book I’m reading. Every detail of the painful memories I want to forget won’t go away. And when my good memories turn up, they make me cry.

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Sometimes my thoughts are like armies of ants, all going somewhere in an orderly fashion, only I don’t know where they’re off to.

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Once I was at the Amtrak Station in Chicago. I wanted to know the name of the exact location where I was standing because my daughter wanted me to call her to tell her exactly where to find me. I asked a friendly porter: “Where am I?”

He said with a shocked yet kindly expression for the failing elderly: “Why, Madam, you are at the Amtrak Station.”

I said, “I know that. I mean where am I exactly so I can tell my daughter where to meet me?”

Relieved, he said: “Near the information booth.”

Good choice, don’t you think? Too bad I couldn’t see the sign. They should do something about the lighting at the Amtrak Station in Chicago.

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Life is a lot about guessing right now. Guessing what someone said. The acoustics aren’t what they used to be. I remember a friend years back I will give you as an example.

She told me that someone had told her the name of a company called Word Form. My friend had repeated: “Bird Farm?”

With hearing like that, who wants to remember?

Speaking of justice, why on earth do I remember the company's name and how my friend mis-heard the company's name, when I can’t for the life of me remember my friend’s name? If I could remember her daughter’s name, I might remember my friend's name. If I could remember the name of the daughter’s husband, that might help too.

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My mother used to say every once in a while that so and so wore the map of Israel on his face. Now I have the map of the whole world on the lines of my stomach.

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My breasts used to make men whistle.  They were pear-shaped. Now they’re dangling pendants.

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Whose hands are these? They can’t be mine.

Well, should I go for a second career?