The other day I went to see “The Girl on the Train.” For anyone who hasn’t seen it (spoiler alert!) it’s about a woman who can’t remember anything because she’s a drunk. It really reminded me of myself…not so much the drinking part but the not remembering part. For instance, even though I read the book, I really enjoyed the movie because I didn’t remember any of it. In fact I kept waiting for something to jog my memory, as I watched, enthralled and excited because I had NO IDEA WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT! None. When it ended I overheard some would-be liar say, “that was exactly like the book” at which point I considered that maybe I never had read the book. I started to feel a little less bad about myself until I checked my Kindle: The Girl on the Train 100% complete. Dang.
Anyway I don’t know why I was so surprised, since I’m becoming increasingly forgetful as the months and years pass. I know what you’re thinking, “D.Parker, you already wrote a blog about forgetting!” And to that I say, are you sure? ‘Cause I can’t remember.
I know a lot of us women of “a certain age” struggle with forgetfulness…and bladder control. The other day some of my friends and I were commiserating: one forgot they were driving to the Foodtown and drove to the high school instead (“I’ve done that!” I agreed, with a little too much enthusiasm), one couldn’t find her car keys (“I can never find my car keys!” I laughed, trying not to pee myself), one poured orange juice in her coffee (“OMG I do that all the time!” now I was giddy…and damp); then I chimed in with “I got in the car yesterday and tried to plug my cell phone charger into the bottom of my Snapple,” and the room went silent.
Recently I spent a frightening afternoon laboring under the assumption that I had lost all my winter shoes and boots, when I couldn’t find them in my summer storage. Did Bianca “borrow” them all? Were they stolen? Had I sold them at my heinous yard sale? Did I give them to my cleaning lady, thinking they would all be out of style this fall; and if so, was she at that very moment, scrubbing someone’s bathtub in my crimson, Manolo Blahnik sling backs? Or worse, had I donated them to the 4-H Club? Was there a camper sitting around a campfire in my black-patent, Prada booties, and I never even got a receipt for the IRS? It was a scary time for me. I searched and searched for what felt like an hour, but as the space is roughly the size of a port-a-jon it couldn’t have been more than 55 minutes, before I concluded that they just weren’t there. I raced home, repeating my prayer to the Shoe Fairy: “I, D.Parker, promise to never, never, ever again cast aspersions on people wearing ugly, um, I mean sensible, footwear if you will just return my precious shoes to me.” Turns out I simply forgot that I never put them into storage, and they were in the back of my closet all along (my assertion which came to me, in a flashback, that “I never like to be apart from my shoes and handbags”). Sadly, now I’m stuck forever having to compliment bad footwear. Can’t mess with the Shoe Fairy.
Last month I had a nightmare that I forgot to drop off the dry cleaning, and then felt relief when I noticed the bag was no longer in my closet; my hopes were dashed days later when I found it in the trunk of my car. I thought I forgot to buy the avocado Mav had been craving, but I eventually found that in the trunk of my car as well. To be completely honest, by the time I discovered it, it was completely unrecognizable. “D.Parker,” I said to myself, “how did a piece of moon rock end up in your car?”
Every so often I surprise myself, I think. Like last week, the morning after an extended conversation with my oldest friend, I had to send her this embarrassing text: “OMG I can’t believe I forgot to wish you a happy anniversary yesterday!” She quickly responded: “Don’t you remember you texted me day before because you were afraid you would forget.” Oy. And there was that day recently when I thought I forgot which tennis court I play on, and what day and time, as I sat there alone in the dark, but it turned out I was just, uncharacteristically, five minutes early.
You might start to wonder if these are all foreboding signs of dementia, or early-onset Alzheimers. But if you knew how much brain power I use to successfully remember the location of every public bathroom in my county, Central Park, and part of Staten Island, three in Chicago, several in upstate New York, and one in Paris, France, you would understand that remembering anything else is secondary.
So in return for not being able to tell you the title, plot or author of that great book I read this summer, not having any excuse for finding my car keys in the butter bin, and washing that load of clothes with fabric softener, I can (almost) promise that I will not wet my pants in public.
PS: Go see the movie.
Loved it, D!!
I forget why!