The Reality of Age and Forget-Me-Nots

I forgot the ham. Again. It sounds innocuous, but really, it’s becoming pathological. I didn’t notice it until last night when we had a “let’s do dinner and marshmallows in the mountains.” I said a hearty yes because in smug moment I knew that three types of custom-ordered deli meats waited in the fridge for just such an emergency. Until I went to the fridge. And realized, yet again, I’d made those sweet women at the neighborhood deli slave over my order AND THEN FORGOT TO PICK IT UP. I seriously think they see me coming and make a beeline for the restroom, “It’s HER, the DELI AMNESIAC.”
Sadly, this memory loss has infiltrated almost every area of my life, and at this juncture, I’m concerned. Like yesterday morning (same day as the Missing Deli Meat Realization). I had been up since 5:30–that’s A.M.–and finally crawled back into bed just as my little ones starting waking up, like bear cubs emerging from winter hibernation. It was so sweet–we cuddled in our big bed and enjoyed the snuggle time, when the doorbell went. That’s when, from a distant haze in my memory bank, the visual of my iphone THAT I HAD JUST LOOKED AT A FEW HOURS BEFORE returned to my frontal lobe–dance practice, 8:40.
This is not just any dance practice. This is a dance practice for a very serious dance teacher who very seriously is sheep-herding hundreds of not-so-serious 8 to 12 year olds in front of 30,000 people for the July 4th Stadium of Fire. Sheer terror followed this morning glory cuddle session (mainly from thoughts about the very serious dance teacher). In fact, four and a half minutes of it, racing around to get Chloe ready for my carpool friend who, by now, wants to spray paint my house with old women graffiti because this is not the first time I’ve forgotten, and likely won’t be the last. I’ve apologized. I’ve taken extra carpool turns (when I can remember). I’ve even brought her a peace offering of chocolate-covered macademia nuts. But a woman can only take so much, I know. It’s only a matter of time before she “forgets” to bring my daughter back home. At which point, I will not have remembered she was gone.
I’m consoled only by the fact that most women I meet have this same issue, after a certain age that is. The young women (anyone younger than 45, which I am) seem to remember dates, social security numbers, and names of paleolithic reptiles with great ease. And I find these ladies look at me with alarm when I continue to call them by a different name (sometimes from the paleolithic reptile family by mistake).
My memory loss is a sad and irreversible truth. In fact, you could have read about this yesterday but I literally forgot to post it.
All my best,

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