Turning 40 has had some real adverse effects on me. My face shifts when I smile, my dimples are no longer cute, and try though I may, I can’t lose a pound to save my soul.

Still, I don’t mind so much what age has done to my body, it’s the mush that the years have left me for brains that’s really getting me down, and I’m getting worse all of the time.

I’ve often admired people with a good and solid memory. There’s nothing more impressive than a person who can remember dates, places and local events; people who are always aware of who they are, where they’re going and what they’re going to do when they get there. I feel such people deserve applause, praise and perhaps a curt smack upside the head.

I’m especially jealous of the individuals who can remember names. They simply make the rest of us look bad. My good friend, Eunice, for example, is a real brainiac who can remember the identity of every person she has ever met. “How do you do that?” I asked her the other day after she greeted several passers-by by name.

“It’s all in the vault,” she replied, tapping her head.

That’s a tough pill to swallow for a gal such as myself, who’s been known to refer to her own children as “little what’s-his-face.”

While some people seem to get smarter every day, I seem to lose 100,000 brain cells every time I turn around. My lack of brilliance affects me at least once daily, and sometimes twice on the weekends. For instance, I distinctly remember an incident just last Saturday, although it could have been in July, when the phone rang and a woman asked, “Lori, did you forget me?”

“That depends,” I replied with concern. “Who are you?”

“Lori!” she said with frustration, “It’s your mother. I’ve been waiting for you to get back to me all afternoon.”

“Oh yeah, Mother. Gosh, I’m so sorry, it’s just been crazy. The kids have been running amok, the refrigerator won’t make ice, and I’ll be danged if the dryer didn’t pick this precise moment to take up smoking.

“By the way,” I asked before she hung up on me, “who did you say you were?”

Lack of elasticity and brain cells isn’t the only ill effect I suffer from aging. For one thing, I’ve noticed that rest has become more important to me. I like to sleep until the very last minute that’s available and then hit the snooze and cozy in for another 10 minutes. It’s a flaw that’s worsening as I age, and if I’m ever on the market for resale, I’ll do my best to change it.

Needless to say, early morning activities aren’t exactly my strong suit. So when the phone rang this morning at 7:56 a.m., I wasn’t exactly in the midst of my calisthenics and early morning devotions. The way I saw it, I had four minutes to sit in the chair and stare, and it was going to take more than some morning person on caffeine to get me motivated.

“Good morning, Lori,” said the school secretary with enough early morning chipperness to be envied. “How are you today?”

Sunrise phone calls from school are never a good thing. They only call when clothes are soiled, or when little Johnny’s presence has been requested at the principal’s office for the third time this week. And normally the really early morning phone call means that precious little Lawrence just upchucked and immediate retrieval has become necessary.

“Do you have a sick child, Jojo?” I asked without further adieu.

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh, man!” I replied as I mentally felt my plans for the day fall like a house of cards. “Which one?”

“Matthew is sick.”

“Shoot. That darn kid, I could have sworn he felt fine this morning. He looked good, smiled when asked, and I’m quite certain he put down more than his fair share of Pop Tarts.” As I gave Jojo my line of reasoning, I tried to picture young Matthew. Did he have auburn hair and big blue eyes? Was he that cute little blond, or was he the toad collector that made homes for every animal that hopped into the yard?

“Jojo,” I finally responded with feigned confidence.

“Yes, Lori.”

“I don’t think I have a child named Matthew.”

“Oh, you don’t. Matthew is mine.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“To remind you that you are down for recess duty.”

“But you said I had a sick child.”

“No, you asked me if I had a sick child, and I said, ‘Matthew is sick.’ I wondered how you knew.”

They may have me committed any day now.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is wclinch@atcjet.net.