Forget About It

Last weekend, I was in the car with my husband, sister and teenage daughter. We were on our way to a fancy horse show "awards banquet" (read: sweaty riders, jug wine, burgers and hot dogs) at a hunt club. 

Carole King's "Tapestry" came on the radio and I reached over and turned it up.

"I love this song," I said. "I think this album might have been the second grownup album I ever bought. End of sixth grade; after "Good-bye Yellow Brick Road."

My husband laughed. "You have an amazing memory," he said.

"Not really," I assured him. "Right now I'm struggling in the 'What did I come into this room for?' department." 

You see, my daughter may be the high school senior, but I'm the one having "senior moments."

My husband admires my memory; my daughter, on the other hand, not so much. "Yeah, I know. You told me that," is a fairly frequent response from her, usually coupled with an appropriate eye roll. Sometimes I refrain from sharing some piece of news or other because chances are pretty good I already have.

And I'd like my daughter to remember me with some modicum of respect (and a lot less eye rolling).

A yoga teacher once told me that I would be less forgetful, less frazzled and less likely to break my foot (that's actually how the discussion started) if I resolved to do one thing at a time. 

Just. One. 

Not easy. If I'm leaving my third floor office to get a second cup of coffee in our first floor kitchen, I invariably bring down my mobile phone, dirty breakfast dishes, outgoing mail and stacks of paper to be recycled. This makes me feel efficient. It also leads to tripping. And, while it seems counter-intuitive, trying to remember everything results in forgetting something — sometimes the original thing I started out to do. The rest of my family can attest to this ...

"What did I do with my coffee cup?"

"Where is my phone?"

"Have you seen my glasses?"

I certainly understand my yogini's advice, but it isn't really in my character to follow it. Still, there are lots of tricks that feel more natural to me. For example, I send myself reminder emails. I record mini memos to myself on my phone. I use sticky notes. I put objects up on my dashboard that don't belong there. I keep a datebook. I make lists. Lots and lots of lists.

And, perhaps most important, I've learned to cut myself slack.

This morning, I had to pick someone up at Bradley Airport in Hartford. Ever the multi-tasker, I planned my drive so that I could sit in the airport parking lot and participate in a conference call for 45 minutes before her flight arrived. The only problem is that I was on automatic pilot (a close cousin to short-term memory loss) and ended up at Brainard Airport. Fortunately, I figured out my mistake (there were no terminals, no passenger carriers). Fortunately, my iPhone has a wonderful little feature called a GPS.

Unfortunately, I spent my 45 minute conference call racing up 91 North to the place I should have gone in the first place.

But, all's well that ends well. I was a mere ten minutes late and everything worked out.

And, let's face it, in a week or so, I probably won't remember my misadventure anyway.

Or where I put my car keys.
 
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Unforgettability

My teenage daughter and I have a running joke these days. I start to tell her something when we're driving somewhere together or settling down to dinner and ...

"You told me that already," she'll say. We both laugh. 

It's true, my memory ain't what it used to be. It's not so much that I'm having what you might call "senior moments" as that I'm just so overcommitted (and overtired) that I can't keep track. Did I tell her that I ordered the purple "galaxy leggings" she needs for Spirit Week? Did I tell her about the nice thing one of the mothers at the stable told me about her? Did I tell her that she needs to send a "Thank You" note to her aunt?

Who knows? I'd better tell her again.

"You told me that already." And so it goes.

Once in a while, she'll repeat something herself and then we really laugh. "Like mother, like daughter." Ha ha ha.

The problem is that memory (or the lack thereof) is not selective. We don't have a choice about what (or whom) we remember. Or what (or whom) we forget.

It seems a waste; there are so many things I'd be happy to forget. Like ...

• Most of the men I dated the year before I met my husband. Oh, I have some fond memories too — my wonderful college boyfriend, a sweet medical student. But by and large? A bit of amnesia would be welcome.

• My haircut in 2009. (Shudder, shudder. Enough said.)

• The time I was performing on tour in a musical and it was the biggest number in the show and I was in the front row at the edge of the stage and the entire cast turned left ... and I turned right.

• All of the Twilight novels.

• When they ran out of tortellini at my wedding. (How could that happen? Sure, there was plenty of other food, but ... HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN??????)

There are things (like tortellini) that can still make us cringe when recalled later. Mistakes made. Lessons learned. Something said in jest that sounded cruel. I've hurt people's feelings, made bad decisions, publicly humiliated myself. Not just as an adult either. I had to miss a kindergarten assembly (with a puppet show!) for some 5-year-old transgression and I was yelled at by a favorite teacher in front of the entire fourth grade. 

And, I somehow remember each of those incidents — in high relief — years or even decades later.

So, why is it so difficult to remember whether or not I've already reminded my daughter to call and confirm her babysitting gig? 

"You told me that already."

Okay, okay. But, have I told you the one about the tortellini?

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.