What’s worse than these “brain farts” or malapropisms is
when someone asks me a simple question like, “What have you been doing to keep
busy?” and my mind goes blank. That happened twice this past week. Once at
the butterfly exhibit when my niece’s daughter-in-law---who says she has
trouble making small talk---asked me that question and couldn’t come up with
one single example from my busy schedule. It was such an awkward moment! I felt
badly for her. I felt badly for me. She was trying to make small talk and I
couldn’t hold up my end. Then again when I got my teeth cleaned yesterday, the hygienist
asked me what I’ve been doing lately. She’s used to me rattling off a string of
stuff but all I could come up with was a fancy lunch down at the culinary college
and that took place several weeks ago. What happened to all the stuff I’ve been
doing since then? Where the heck did the Memory Fairy dump those events? I'm guessing in a dark corner of my brain that won’t be accessible
until someone asks me if I want gravy on my mash potatoes.
It’s not enough that we have to worry about joints that need replacing, eyelids that need lifting for better vision, moles that grow in strange places and nipples that point toward
the floor we also have to worry about losing our
marbles! At least I do. That cluster of brain cells that stands guard over my
memories is being a cranky child, intent on embarrassing me when I least expect
it. I think it would be a good idea for me to go to one of those retreats where
silence is required, assuming they have mirrors available. I could work on
looking luminously radiant from a spirit within and pretend I still remember
me. Remember me! I do need to remember me, more specifically that I’ve never
had a good memory for the places I’ve been. Case in point: Back in the ‘80s while
on our way Out West my husband stopped at a restaurant that I absolutely loved---the
décor, the menu, the view---and when I expressed my joy at finding such a
wonderful place he said, “It wasn’t hard. You loved it the last two times we
were here.” My bad memory for the places we’d been before was notorious but
when you’re young quirky personality ticks like that are no big deal. But when your hair
turns gray your memory ticks turn into telling lies on your Medicare Wellness questionnaire.
“Nope, nani, nah, nda, nahi, no way do I forget stuff, Doc! Who told you that?”
When I turn the page on my day planner putting April in the
past, my over-booked life will be behind me until October when I’ll do it to
myself all over again. No more getting up at six or seven and falling asleep
before my head hits the pillow at midnight. No more living by a schedule that would
put the White House Director of Scheduling and Advance to shame---yes, that’s a
real thing. No more waking up in the morning and before getting out of bed saying
something like: If it’s Tuesday this must
be Belgium. I’m hoping my brain farts are just a symptom of exhaustion, of
trying to do too and not from having my gray matter cluttered up with too much junk like obscure romantic comedies featuring American
tourists in Europe. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could clean out our brains like
we do our computers---save this, delete that, reformat the space and send the whole kitten kaboodle off to a geek when it needs fine tuning. ©
