BY MARGO D. BELLER

A few weeks ago, I was writing an e-mail to a friend that my older niece, who only the other day fit comfortably in the crook of my arm, is getting married. I was merrily typing along, and then went back to re-read what I wrote. As a copy editor, that’s second nature.

I was shocked by what I saw. As I speed-typed along, I had put in words that sounded like, but were not the words I’d intended, dropped letters or words, and transposed letters. It looked like someone’s cat had walked across the keyboard.

I’m sure that, like me, you’ve dashed off an e-mail, briefly scanned it, and then hit “send” only to later see you’d put in an extra letter or dropped a few. Most people don’t care about this. In my line of work, such errors could get me fired.

That’s bad enough. I’ve also been guilty of walking into the kitchen to do something, get about halfway in, and then not remember why I came. I am forced to backtrack, and hope something will remind me. Senior moment.

I don’t consider myself a senior. Seniors are people over 65 – what used to be retirement age until the 2008 recession wiped out enough of our nest eggs to force us to keep working. But someone – no doubt under the age of 50 – coined the phrase “senior moment” and that has stuck.

My mother-in-law recently turned 80. For a long time she feared she was going the way of her mother, who died after years of Alzheimer’s. Now, she doesn’t care. Her excuse for whatever she forgot: “senior moment” trips off her tongue.

I’ve gotten into my car, and started driving and then pulled over in a panic, unable to remember my route. No, I don’t use GPS, I use my brain. And a map in the glove compartment.

Working out how to overcome these moments is an exercise in memory, like doing crossword puzzles. As with physical exercise, it’s hard work.

I’ve tried to slow down. When I write, I wait for the software program to alert me, in red, that I’ve misspelled something, although that doesn’t work if I write “punish” when I mean “publish” or drop several words I’d intended to include. Before I leave for someplace, I work out the route in my head. It forces me to cope. And then I come home to do more crossword puzzles.

However, I do not get senior moments when it comes to birds. I know which “life birds” I’ve seen, and which I’m seeking. I know the areas where I can successfully find particular birds depending on the season. I remember where they like to hang out, their calls and field marks. There is no stress involved, and it’s something I love to do.

 That must be the connection.

Allow me to coin the phrase “junior moment” for those times when you are doing something you enjoy, and feeling like a kid again.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Many years ago, when my uncle and aunt would visit, they would come to breakfast with one of those large pill organizers, the kind with seven compartments labeled with the day of the week. They had to be careful to take the right pill in the right order at the right time, and make sure the right person took the right pill.

I used to chuckle at this. Now my husband and I do the same thing.

I’ve learned that there’s now nothing as mortifying to someone who’s young at heart as trying to open a pill bottle.

When MH and I travel, we have a smaller version of the seven-day pill organizer. I can fit many days’ worth of pills in those compartments – daily vitamins, calcium supplements, iron pills, thyroid pills. But we also need separate bottles for MH’s joint pills, and our fish oil supplements.

It’s a lot of pills.

In our youth, we got by with a daily vitamin. Then I had to start taking the thyroid pill. Then, over time, I needed iron for anemia; calcium for the bones. I started us on fish pills to make up for the fish I don’t often make for supper. MH’s joint pills came after a friend of ours told him how much they helped her sore knees. MH, with his own sore knees, swear they are helping.

MH and I are in reasonably good health, but it can be a struggle to get down some of the larger pills. It’s all over-the-counter stuff, except for the thyroid medicine.

All, however, have varying degrees of hassle attached to trying to get the bottles open the first time.

I understand it’s important to keep drugs, even vitamin supplements, from being compromised, and away from small children. People have died from tampering with everyday stuff, so make it harder to open the bottle.

Still, when I try to wrap my hands around a “tamper-proof, child-proof” cap, I want to scream.

The other day I had to open another new bottle of the thyroid pills. Press down, turn the cap – I’m used to that now. I can do it. But this time, there was something else under the cap – an “easy open” seal.

This was no easy-open seal.

Bad enough I have to turn to MH for help in opening jars that prove resistant to my efforts. That’s humbling. But being unable to pull apart an “easy open” seal? What the hey?

Finally, in frustration, I pushed down hard enough to break the seal – not exactly the way it was intended to be opened – and I could get to the pills.

It’s not just pills. Try to open a sealed, “easy-open,” package of cheese or dried cranberries lately? It’s ain’t easy, and won’t get easier.

I know there is no magic pill to restore the suppleness of a younger body, or to help me lose weight without eating less. But I could sure use one to strengthen my hands.

Presuming I could get the bottle open.