The Absent-Minded Toddler

Forget something?

You are not alone. Personally, I’ve been forgetting things for longer than I can remember, possibly in the womb.

“What did you say this cord was, and why is it always getting tangled?” (A forerunner to hairdryer issues that would plague me to this very day.)

I was the two-year old looking for her binky. Or blanky. I forget.

The kid in kindergarten who put the finger paints in some other kid’s cubby.

In first grade — Even though I was class president and have the inscribed Little Peppers book to prove it! — I was forever forgetting my pencil. My crayons. My notebook. My bologna sandwich. Or, worst case scenario, the Lone Ranger lunch box that contained all of the above.

BTW: I think I went hungry at school one day because my mother gave me lunch money for a sandwich and the sign said Bologna. Buh-LOG-nuh? What the hell was that? I wanted baloney. I wonder why I didn’t just get the peanut butter and jelly. Who remembers?

It Didn’t Get Any Better

In high school, I would forget which extracurricular activity I was signed up for and appear at the wrong room. I was not really interested in, or suited for, the Young Republicans Club or the Future Farmers of America.

In college, I hit a new high (or low) in absentmindedness. I lost my senior thesis. Really. A whole year’s worth of work. Gone. Never to be seen or heard from again. It is known in academic circles as the “Jimmy Hoffa of Term Papers.”

BTW: It was an analysis of Under Milkwood, a play by Dylan Thomas, which, in spite of having to perform the tedious task of rewriting my paper, I still love to this day. How can you not love something that describes a woman as getting so angry that “steam came pouring out of her navel?”

I got a B+, which, by pure coincidence, happens to be my blood type— and a good attitude to boot: B positive. Get it? Be. Positive. Oh never mind. My professor who, for all I know, was absentminded as well, as is their wont, liked the paper, but I always felt that by writing it over, something had gotten lost in the translation and I would have gotten an A- on the missing version.

Losing things has always been a talent of mine.

I have lost, among other things, hats, scarves and gloves (easy), a fur hat (more challenging), a fur coat (well, that was stolen) and underwear (we’re into the big leagues here). For the last one, please refer to my post entitled, “Oh, you’re Supposed to Toss Coins!”

Then, just this morning, while attempting to organize my shoes (Thousands of dollars worth, almost all unwearable, but that’s yet another story (See Size Matters), I discovered I had lost a pair of beautiful suede Mary Janes.

After a panicked search high and low (Where are those crib-tossing detectives of Law and Order when you need them? (See Law & Disorder), I found the shoes in the hall closet, which hasn’t been organized for all of human history, destined for a trip to my trusty shoemaker for non-skid soles. They had been there since some time last winter.

So why am I telling you all this?

Well, according to Andrea Mitchell — although not The Donald himself, who, if you recall, refused to go to the traditional Press Corps Dinner — self-deprecating humor makes you more lovable, and who doesn’t want that? Well, apparently not our Dear Leader: his not attending that dinner was “unpresidented.” (Sic. Really sic.) Not to mention unlovable. But I have another, less narcissistic, reason for writing this post.

No More Senior Moments!

I need to say this. You need to listen. Please stop taking your lapses of memory, or misplaced iPhones (Where IS that thing?) so seriously. Do not fret over these unavoidable incidents, and whatever you do, never ever refer to them as “senior moments.” Horrible phrase, that. Should be banished forever from the kingdom.

Brain farts, maybe. At least that’s not ageist. And sounds active rather than passive. Brain freeze? I’m okay with that, too. Think of Rick Perry trying to come up with the third agency he would have shut down if he had become president. OTOH, don’t think about that. He’s now Secretary of Energy or some damn thing.

Stop worrying about forgetting stuff. Happens to everyone. All the time. And as I was saying . . . what was I saying? Something about worrying, I seem to remember?

Or was it about this cute baby picture that I found on my desktop while looking for those quarterly statements I need for when what’s-his-name comes to talk to me about (Gasp!) financial planning.

Finding the photo reminded me that there once WAS  a time when we had no statements, no planning, no finances, no worries. Not even a iPhone!

Remember?