FORGET IT

When my Father was 90-years-old, he called me and said, “Something terrible happened to me today.” “What happened?” I asked. “For the first time in my life,” he replied, “I couldn’t remember someone’s name.” “Dad,” I said, “sometimes, I do that on purpose.” Of course, for a man with a phenomenal memory, he didn’t think my answer was all that funny.

Recently, I saw an ad in my newspaper headlined, “Age Proof Your Brain.” The advertisement claimed that by swallowing an expensive, little pill, all those forgetful brains out there would get a jump-start. I guess it’s kind of a flim-flam jumper cable to the noggin.

The AARP Magazine featured an article that offered some ways toward a fit mind:
Get moving: I think they meant exercise and not moving in with your kids.
Pump iron: I’m not sure if that will make you brainier, but you might end up looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and be able to write a forgettable memoir.  
Seek out new skills: I have learned to pump gas which is much is easier than futzing around with iron.     
Meditation:  Hummmmm.  Okay, that’s done.  
Eat Like a Greek: That means fish, vegetables, fruit, nuts and beans. However, if none of those are available drink lots of Ouzo. Opa!
Spice it up: I think they mean cur cumin---not phone sex.
Stimulating conversation: “It’s raining outside” is not stimulating conversation.

My friend, who was gone for the summer, returned home and said, ”I open the wrong drawers looking for stuff.” I told her, “I don’t have to leave for the summer to do that.”

Sometimes a short memory can save a relationship, but then again, a memory can last forever. That begs the question, “So what are you going to do with it?”
I suggest it’s a good idea to keep the good ones and file the bad ones into your mental museum.  Remember that Mama’s pot roast smelled so good. Try to forget that it tasted like rope.

Of course, memory lapses are both normal and age related. Teenagers notoriously forget their homework, books and lunch. Children in grade school forget to tell you---until bedtime--- that it’s their turn to bring the cookies to class the next day.

Years ago when my husband and I were out-of-town, our son Josh had forgotten to tell us (or the baby sitter) that he had volunteered to bring the first-grade-class pet home for the weekend. Then they both forgot to tell us that the pet had escaped, and was lost somewhere in the bathroom. What kind of beastie was it? And, did we ever find it? I can’t remember. You might ask the new owner of the house, once she stops screaming. It’s been 50 years; you’d think the thing would have died by now.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Women and elephants never forget.” Dorothy Parker)