I wish I could say that my spotty memory is due to middle age, but alas, that would be the easy way out, and hell, will I EVER admit to something like that?? NO!!! ;p.
I noticed over a decade ago that I was starting to “miss” a few details in my dreary life. Heck, sometimes I think I’m missing days if not weeks in my dizzy existence.
People – friends, family, even colleagues – would be sharing anecdotes about this-that-or-the-other, and I will be like “Nah, don’t remember it“. Some of the stories they would share, would get reactions of “What?!?! I would never….!!!!” from me, because it just sounded like something that I would never do or say. And the looks of sheer perplexion on these loved one’s faces that I could ever forget such details…..how should I feel, eh??
Of course, the family – being Boo and Boys – just completely take advantage of my cagey memory, and definitely take as many chances as they can in order to
1. get away with murder
2. make me feel bad
3. get something out of me
4. get away with murder
Opportunists. I like it.
Admittedly, my memory is hazy, but I hate anyone trying to take me for a ride because of it. Hence I don’t let on that I have absolutely no freaking clue what people are on about. If I’m not sure about what they are talking about (i.e. have no cookin’ clue), I would just make non-committal noises, e.g “Oh…yes…hmm…ya…” or whenever I can, try to get more details to jog the brain, such as “I don’t exactly recall, can you refresh….” That works like a charm. Most of the time. Other times I just get the evil eye from people, you know that “She’s missing the whole box of screws…” -look. Yeah, I’m crazy alright.
But, it is embarrassing at times too. When I can’t remember people who I met last week. Or what I said to someone-or-another at a party. Or if I can’t remember what I did a few days ago, after breakfast. I sometimes miss hours of my day. Horrible, isn’t it??
On the flip side, there are things that I remember as clearly as the day it happened. Go figure. I can’t say if it’s something about the event, the person, or my state of mind at the time. There is just absolutely no pattern there. If there was a pattern, I would cling to it like a lifeline, and use that in order to hold on to memories, to details. Alas. No such luck.
I just worry that I will forget completely. Forget the wonder of the boys growing up – the first time they really looked and recognized me as their mom, their first smiles, their first hugs and kisses, the first day at school, losing their first teeth. It’s already starting to get foggier.
That fills me with dread. That I may be left with nothing to remind me of the best times in my life
I think I should write this in a memoir.
To make sure that I have something to remember.