You thought this post was going to be about Viagra, didn’t you? The need for those little blue devils is certainly a sign of aging. But an even surer sign of getting old is when you have to get one of those plastic cases to keep all of your pills straight.

In theory, it seems like a fine idea, to ensure people with memory loss — or just plain stupidity — take their pills when they’re supposed to. Well, as I’ve come to learn, organizing your medications and actually taking them are two different things. After all, you can take a pill with water, but you can’t make it drink.

I can’t tell you how many mornings I wake up and realize I didn’t take my pills the night before. Usually, this happens after a night of cocktails, when I get home and crash so fast that not taking pills is only one of the many things wrong the next morning.  Fellas, ever wake up with your shorts completely twisted around, so the opening is in the rear? How does that happen???

A friend of mine came up with what seemed like an excellent solution to my forgetfulness. He told me to set a reminder on my phone. So I did.

One night, we were out to dinner with another couple, when my reminder — Terry Jacks’ soulless “Seasons in the Sun” — started blaring out of my phone. (It mostly reminds me to change my reminder. But any ditty voted “Favorite Song” by the graduating seniors of Seaford High School, Class of ’74, can’t be ALL bad, can it? CAN IT???) Anyway, I stand up and excuse myself from the table, when one of our dining companions innocently asks, “Where are you going?”

“Where am I going?? I reply. “I’m going to another restaurant. I think I’ll have a better chance to find people I actually like.” (I would never really say that … anymore. That’s just what goes through my mind when people ask me where I’m going when I stand up in a restaurant. There just aren’t that many multiple-choice answers to that question. What I actually say is, ” ‘Seasons in the Sun’ is playing, so that means I have to go to the men’s room and cram a suppository up my ass. Enjoy your meal!”)

But back to the case at hand. If you’re like me, you’ve probably dropped the damned thing at least once and watched a week’s worth of medications roll all over the tile floor. And just like socks in a dryer, when you think you’ve collected them all, there’s always at least one unaccounted for.  This wouldn’t be a problem, but we have a dog who, as dogs will, eats anything that falls to the floor. So it’s either no heartburn, or a very loose stool for little Bailey.

Cut to 3 AM. I feel a cactus growing in my cheek. The desert-like conditions inside my mouth brought on by the jet-propulsed air from the nearby CPAP machine awakens me, so I use the time to go to the bathroom again. Returning to bed, there’s the dog, on my side, laying under my blanket, looking all cozy and warm and taking up the exact space where I like to stretch out my legs. (It’s so painfully clear which one of us my wife prefers!) Watching the dog lying where he is, I pray to the almighty above that Bailey ate the heartburn pill. Why don’t I know for sure, you ask? Because the pharmaceutical companies decided the heartburn pill should be round and the color ‘egg shell,’ while the bowel blaster is round and the color ‘sand.’ Egg shell or sand? I CAN’T TELL THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE!!! You need  Sherwin Williams swatch cards to make it through the day!!

Finally maneuvering back into bed so as not to disturb anyone, I reconnect the air compressor to my mask, the straps nestling into what are now permanent indentations in my face. As my eyes close and I begin to fall into a glorious sleep, I suddenly think… “Did I take my pills?”