On Remembering

May you never forget what his worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten. ~ Irish Blessing

I know, I know.  If ever there was a tired subject about getting a little gray in the temples, it's the fact that you can't remember things anymore.  Happens to everyone, I guess, or at least most everyone I know.  I admire greatly those who take it in stride with a graceful air and little chuckle; I'm more inclined to invent new sailor's language when it happens to me.  Needless to say, I need to work on this, in more ways than one.

My plan, initially, was to tackle this with conscious effort.  I'm just not concentrating.  Not paying attention.  So, I was determined this week to make sure that all the items that were supposed to show up with me at work, actually showed up with me when I arrived at the office.  Laptop? Check.  Power cord? Check.  Matching shoes?  Check.  This worked fabulously, except that for two days in a row I  marched out to the car, perfectly appointed, and proceeded to spend the next few minutes fumbling around looking for my keys, which I had conveniently forgotten back in the house.  Yes, I can laugh about that.  Backing the car out of the garage with the door still down, however, wasn't so funny (well, my kids thought it was).

My wife thinks the answer is fish oil.  I'm willing to give it a shot, but if cats start following me around like the pied piper, that's out.  

I had another strategy not too long ago, which was to play brain-games on my kid's Nintendo DS. These games are scientifically designed - or so the maker claims - to "stimulate your prefrontal cortex" by pissing you off beyond the pale.  According to this software, my brain is 85 years old.  Which wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't for all the snitty remarks that emanate from this bizarre, decapitated cartoon head floating around on the screen... Feeling a bit tired, are we?  No, actually, I'm feeling like conducting a scientific experiment that involves thrusting this stylus through the screen.  This is the part where I get defensive.  It's not that I can't solve all these challenging, advanced math questions like 1+6, 8+2, quickly, it's that I can't write the answer down in a way that it can recognize.  This isn't brain training, it's Sister Mary Devota's penmanship class, and I'm back in second grade, flunking it for a second time.

Besides, what's wrong with having an 85 year old brain?  85 year old brains are cool and deep and placid, like the Mississippi river flowing out over the delta after a long journey.  They're busy pondering life's mysteries, while the flotsam of daily tasks drift away on the current.  So when I go outside at night to wheel the trash to the curb, pausing instead to get lost in the winter star fields of Orion, marvelling at the beauty of the heavens, freed from the tyranny of any ticking clock, that's Ok.  I'll remember to take the trash out next time.