Forget It

I am the type of person who can walk from one room to another and not know why I’ve gone there. I know I had a reason when I began my trek, but I lost it on the way. Sometimes I try backing up in hopes it might come to me.

My family can usually tell this is the problem by the bewildered look on my face. Walking in reverse also seems to be a giveaway. Sometimes they try to help and other times they just let me wander aimlessly, figuring I’ll wise up or wear out.

I try to blame this forgetfulness on age. But those who have known me for years remind me that my wires have never all been touching, although turning forty has seemed to loosen a few more.

I read in an article that after we turn forty, one thousand brain cells die each day. But according to the writer, it doesn’t matter because we have millions . . . or was that billions, anyway lots of them. My problem is the cells I’ve been losing were filled with valuable information I meant to retain—like where I’m going, how old I am, the names of family members, etc.

Names. Isn’t it embarrassing when you know you know but you draw a blank? I realize that our names are important to us, and we don’t want to be forgotten. That’s why I think name tags should be mandatory. They should be pinned on us at birth and removed after the funeral. Think of all the awkward moments that could alleviate.

The guy, oh, what’s his name, who sang “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” doesn’t know how lucky he is. I left my bifocals in Indiana, my alarm clock in Ohio, my Bible on an airplane heading for Texas, my slip in Colorado, and heaven only knows where my watch is . . . probably with my sunglasses and keys.

Have you even been digging through a drawer when all of a sudden you realize you don’t know what you’re looking for/ If anyone is watching me, I just keep digging. I’ve found a lot of lost items that way.

It’s disconcerting for me to dial the phone, and by the time the call connects, to find my mind has disconnected—I’ve forgotten whom I’m calling. Sometimes I hang up until I remember. Other times I listen in hopes I’ll recognize the voice. Occasionally I’ve been brave and confessed to the anonymous party that I can’t remember whom I dialed and hope they’ll claim me.

The point I’m trying to make is . . . is . . .