The human brain does not age like fine wine. It ages like an orange the carwash staff find under a car seat after three weeks, left to roast in the scorching sun.
About three years ago, I wrote a column bragging about being a lifelong scatterbrain since primary school, saying that my fickle memory had little to do with age. It seems I jinxed myself because — whoa — we’ve got a crisis in Rememberville! Saying my memory has gone to the dogs as I’ve slid further into my fifties is an insult to canines everywhere. Even the oldest dog never forgets to sniff another mutt’s bottom or howl at the full moon every 28 days.
The other day I decided to exchange the kitchen gas canister. You know how it works: you hand over your brand-new, sparkly canister, and they give you one so battered it probably survived PW Botha’s Rubicon speech. Cognisant of my ailing attention span, I stood in the doorway and ran through my leaving-the-house checklist. Car keys — check.
Even the oldest dog never forgets to sniff another mutt’s bottom or howl at the full moon every 28 days
Phone — check. House keys — check. Wallet — check. Driving glasses — check. Pants — check (don’t laugh; I’ve pulled up outside my local Spar in my boxer shorts before).
Satisfied, I drove there, walked confidently to the counter, whipped out my credit card and barked, “9kg exchange, please!” That’s when I “saw” my empty canister sitting in my driveway. Without another word, I did a 180 and went home — just as the till operator yelled “Next!” to a customer with his head attached to his neck. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that, back home, I got distracted by a dozen other things and nearly left the canister in the driveway again. The more cynical among my readers might suspect PCP abuse.
Two years ago, I vowed to write down everything I needed to remember and to set phone reminders. Brilliant plan. To remember what I wanted to write in this column, I relied heavily on notes — and during the writing of this very column, several reminders popped up between my three devices. Call mother. Pick up meds from Dis-Chem. Respond to tax consultant’s emails. Consider Bangkok. If you’re wondering about Bangkok, take a number and join the queue; I have no clue either.
Another problem is that sometimes I see reminders like “Check Phoenix” and can’t remember if it’s a place or a person. But the number one reason my system fails? I forget to remember to set reminders for important stuff. This tends to happen when my best thoughts strike while I’m being bombarded with white noise — in the shower or navigating the traffic around the Gillooly’s Interchange in Bedfordview.
Before including this next bit, I considered consulting a friend I met in high school 42 years ago and who is now a Joburg advocate. I wanted to ask if humour columns could legally be used to extract 50% of my income in an alimony hearing. I abandoned the idea when I remembered his memory is as patchy as his hairless scalp — decades of scotch doubles have taken their toll.
Anyway, I discussed the column with my wife, who doubles as my sounding board and human reminder system. She giggled and sent me a YouTube clip: a septuagenarian at a US checkout, paying for three six-packs of ale. The cashier asks: “Do you need milk, maybe?” The man sheepishly turns back into the store — his wife had pinned a note on him: “Remind me to get milk.” After we laughed about this, I picked up my car keys and headed out. This is when the missus goes, “Are you leaving your bottled water?” I thought she was being sarcastic; she knows I never leave the house without water. I mumbled, “No need to be fresh about it,” turned back to grab my water bottle and headed out again — only to hear, “I suppose you won’t be needing your wallet then?”
The point of this column isn’t to brag that I put Dory, the Pacific regal blue tang from Finding Nemo, to shame with my memory. It’s also not to explain why, in 20 years, you might find me at the Bedford Centre parking lot, frantically searching for my car sans pants, with a note on my forehead: “I took an Uber here. Tell me to hail one back home.” The truth is, I don’t even remember why I started writing this column in the first place.
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