Aging is okay, given the alternative. But adding years should not mean subtracting words. I’m sure I’m not the only man who has this problem and please, don’t get ahead of me here.
She: "Ah, Dave called and he wants us to . . . ."
At this point the way, way overused rolodex in my brain starts spinning like the back wheels of a light pickup truck in a field of fresh goose poop.
From a dead stop at A, my cerebral scanner hits top speed at C and over-runs D by a full letter. Extraneous. Exhaustive, backing up now … beep, beep, beep … Egregious, Expletive deleted, Egads – here we go again.
Me: "Okay, Dave my nephew, Dave your brother, Dave Barnard, Doctor Dave, Dave No Relation Thomas, Super Dave, Die Hard Bill’s Fan Dave, Dave Patterson, Dave Miller, Dave Nicholson, Dave Sathmary, Dave Barlow or Dave my former brother-in-law?"
She: "Oh, sorry, did I say Dave? I meant Dan."
Oh, boy. I hit the brain button. The rolodex surges ahead to Excruciating. Backing up . . . beep, beep, beep … to Dan.
Me: "Okay, Dan my current brother-in-law, Dan Sunday, Dan Patterson, Dan Kozar, Dan Augustine, Dan The Man, Dan Dee Dan Dan the guy from Dragnet, Dan Rather or Dan Fogelberg?" (Sorry, my rolodex hasn’t been updated in months.)    
She: "Anyway, Dan wants us to go and see a movie at that theatre. You know the one."
Me: "Niagara Square, North Park, Seaway Mall, Pen Centre 6, Carleton, Cumberland, Amherst 3, Maple Ridge 8, Superplex 12 or The Elmwood 16 also known as the Adam Sandler Museum?"
She: "We’ve never been to the Superplex! Anyway it’s the movie about the war."
I smell rubber burning as my mental directory races through the alphabet all the way to Y, Yikes, stops, pulls back one letter to X for a quick X-ray that shows some damaged cells and a few overworked fissures. For no apparent reason my rolodex, overwrought and no doubt delirious, stops at Xerox, drops its pants, jumps up on the machine and makes a photocopy of its own bum.
Me: "The war in Iraq, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka, Somalia, Darfur, East Timor, Tibet, Kurdistan, Burma, Columbia, Gaza Strip, Kashmir, Waziristan, Nigeria or Dick Cheney’s shorts?"
She: "It’s the diamond war in that country in Africa."
Me: "Africa, North Africa, West Africa, South Africa, Egypt, Morocco, Angola, Zambia, Namibia, Ethiopia, Gabon, Ghana, Guinea …?"
Due to recent flooding, my rolodex gets mired up to its axles in G. Too far to walk all the way to T for a tow truck, it begins to hitchhike when a bunch of Herdsmen walk across the border from Burkina Faso and push it out of the muck.
I start again.
Me: "Angola, Cameroon, Botswana, Rhodesia. Rhodesia?! Hey, there’s Ian Smith in a burka!"
She: "I think it’s set in the diamond mines of Sierra Leone and it stars that actor you really like."
A warning light appears on the dashboard of my scanner.
Me: "Chris Cooper, Gary Sinise, Toby Maguire, Ryan Gosling, Tom Wilkinson, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Dan Cheadle, Ralph Fiennes, Colm Meaney, Colm Feore, Eric Bana, Daniel Day-Lewis, Chris Wilton, Philippe Noiret, Terrence Howard, Nick Nolte when he’s sober?"
She: "No. Leonardo DiCaprio."
Me: "I don’t like Leonardo DiCaprio."
She: "Whatever. Anyway, they want to go to that restaurant first."
My rolodex runs out of gas trying to get from A for Actors to R for Restaurants before they stop serving. Fortunately at P it’s able to coast into a Petro Canada station.
Me: "Lucy’s, Sugars II, San Marco, On the Waterfront, J.C.’s, Casa Mia, Mama Mia’s, Casa D’Ora, Noir 27, Yukiguni’s, Chiado, McLaughlins, EastDell Estates, The Rex, Hoovers Marina?"
She: "No, not like a formal restaurant, just a pub like that place beside the canal."
My rolodex, which is now over-heating, losing power and running on two flat tires, boards a laker at Lock 3 for a trip up the Welland Canal. For some reason they make it wear a life jacket.
Me: "The Galley, Lotus Garden, Walter’s Neptune, The Smokin’ Buddha, Harbour Inn, Deed’s Place, The Bridge Pub, The Dainer, The Galley?"
She: "No. You know. The Canalside Pub."
Me: "Wait. Wait. Wait. The name of the pub beside the canal you were trying to come up with was … the Canalside Pub?!"
She: "Yeah, that’s it. It’s right beside that shop."
I can’t go there. A late-breaking bulletin flashing across my brain claims my mental rolodex jumped ship near the train bridge in Dain City. Witnesses said it just stripped down naked and went straight off the bow clutching the anchor with both arms.
Me: "I can’t go."
She: "Why not?"
Me: "I have to go lie down on the ..."
She: "On the bed?"
Me: "On the highway."
She: "On the shoulder?"
Me: "The centre line."
Unlike oil, we are not running out of words. People who don’t use enough words are like drivers who refuse to use their blinker because they believe it drains the battery. It doesn’t. I swear. Remember: as we shrink, our vocabularies need not.

William Thomas is the author of nine books of humour including Margaret and Me, the story about his wee Irish mother. Visit williamthomas.ca