Will was signing in for a new activity and the young man checking him in asked him his age. “12, uh, 13, uh, 14,” Will answered, in rapid succession, with a sheepish grin by the end. It was the first time someone had asked since he celebrated his birthday just a couple of weeks ago and his brain clearly had been so muddled by the swift passage of time that he couldn’t remember how old he was.
I laughed and said this was the funniest thing I had heard from him in a long time and he was incredulous. “Really, mom, the funniest thing?” he queried, his expression pointedly broadcasting that I needed to get a life. I found his confusion amusing and refreshing because I often can’t remember one day to the next, and I was gratified to discover that today’s hurry-scurry tempo can affect even the young.
For example, because my mind gets so addled it’s good that I only have three children because I call out each name before I get to the correct one standing right in front of me. Sometimes for good measure the dogs’ names get thrown into the mix, so it’s Katie-Molly-Chloe-Brady-Will. This problem is compounded during the holidays and family vacations, when everyone is actually home and chaos abounds for many other reasons.
My father used to do this, and we children used to laugh out loud. It’s not so funny any more. Sorry, dad.
Our brains today are on perpetual overload. Sure, we have more gizmos and gadgets to help us keep track of our lives, but we still have to keep track of those gizmos and gadgets and input the information. I am checking for the whereabouts of my iPhone too many times during the day, clutching at my pockets or inside my purse or looking on the bathroom sink or by the kitchen stove or on the coffee table or by the computer, and so on. I call my phone several times a day as well to track it down and very often it buzzes right from the black hole that is my purse.
I vividly remember the day the whereabouts of my phone eluded me for virtually the whole day and I was ready to cry with frustration because I could hear it buzzing, but I could not find it anywhere. I would follow the sound and it would fade. I would call it again and it would buzz; I would follow and it would fade. If I had one of those light meters tracking my frenzied movements, they may have committed me to the funny farm. I literally flipped the mattress on our bed because the buzz was coming from there; I pushed the nightstands around — the phrase turning the house upside down comes to mind and if I could have, I would have.
Then, Eureka, in a sudden burst of clarity I realized that the buzz was coming from INSIDE THE AIR VENT! My phone was not upstairs but downstairs and had been all along! The elusive buzz had only been taunting me from afar! I was convinced the phone was alive and mocking me.
One of my most frustrating incidents of forgetfulness happened in the parking lot at Target in East Windsor. Though Carnation’s fat free coffee creamer is readily available at stores closer to home, I have discovered that it is $1.50 a bottle less expensive at that store. This explains why I cleaned out their refrigerator that day and loaded up my cart with all 20 bottles in stock, each bottle costing $3.29 a pop.
But in my forgetfulness, I had neglected to take my reusable shopping bags inside with me (I always forget these, and I always forget my coupons, but that’s another story) so I told the cashier, no problem, I’ll just leave the bottles inside my cart and load them into my bags in my car in the parking lot.
Fast forward to the next morning. I’m in the kitchen looking inside my refrigerator for the creamer. There is none to be had. Funny, I remember buying tons yesterday, I tell myself. I go to the refrigerator in the garage. No creamer. Maybe I forgot to unload them? Perhaps they are still in the car? Nope, not in the car either.
I push the rewind button in my brain. I remember pushing the cart loaded with 20 bottles out to the Target parking lot. It’s the only thing I bought yesterday. Could I possibly have forgotten to unload them? Could they still be sitting in the cart in the parking lot?
I jump in the car and drive out Route 571, intent on hunting down my prey, but more intent on proving that I had not lost my mind. I search all the carts in the parking lot. I don’t know why I would have expected they would still be there from the day before, but rationality clearly was not in charge. I stalk inside the store to customer service, asking if anyone has turned in a cart with 20 bottles of creamer. They look at me strangely, but assure me that no one has turned in such a thing.
I am stumped and I give up, even though it means that I am out about $65, all because I had tried to save a little money.
Confession: to this day I still don’t know what happened to my 20 bottles of creamer. I feel like the cosmos is laughing at me somehow. This explains why I get more than my deserved share of amusement when brains younger than mine exhibit occasional signs of freeze. It shows that I am not alone. I will take comfort where I can find it. Forgive me, my son. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.
