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Humor March 2013

Circling the Drain

A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste

By Allen Smith

In all fairness, it's not my brain's fault for failing to keep up with the incessant demand for retaining information. Between being submerged during fraternity keg parties, oxygen-depleted by pot through the ‘60s and suffocated with black market muscle relaxants, it's a wonder there's anything left for my dementia and Alzheimer's to grab on to.

For the life of me, I can't remember what this article was going to be about. That happens a lot when you get to be my age – you seem to forget even the simplest things like your address, where you keep your money or why your underwear is on the outside of your pants. Of course, it wasn't always like that.

There was a time when my mind was a veritable sponge for anything that passed within 100 miles of my senses. I have very important things filed away – like that 1974 Big Mac marketing slogan, "Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, all on a sesame seed bun," but, even under the threat of death, I can no longer identify a tenth of the U.S. state capitols, the names of America's founding fathers or any of the other things new U.S. immigrants are required to know before acquiring equal citizen status with me.

Over the years, I've been amazed at the sheer volume of space I've wasted cramming new lingua franca into my already dwindling cranial space. Every time I launch a new career, there's another lengthy list of vernacular I'm required to memorize that don't have anything to do with the last. And I'm not the only one with complaints. According to my dentist, he doesn't depend on any of the terms he acquired in high school auto shop. If he had, it would make his job much easier: "Margie, how about handing me that 3/8-inch torque wrench with the 6-inch drive, so I can clean out Mr. Fensterman’s root canal?"

In all fairness, it's not my brain's fault for failing to keep up with the incessant demand for retaining information. Between being submerged during fraternity keg parties, oxygen-depleted by pot through the ‘60s and suffocated with black market muscle relaxants, it's a wonder there's anything left for my dementia and Alzheimer's to grab on to. I haven't yet had to wrestle with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, prosopagnosia, fibromyalgia, hydrocephalus, meningitis, Parkinson's disease, epilepsy or transient ischemic attacks but there have been plenty of times I've stood in the kitchen wondering why I walked in there in the first place. To avoid looking stupid in front of my wife, I'll usually just grab the blender and take it back to the bedroom. My frequent irrational behavior baffles her so much, she's learned not to ask questions anymore. She just makes room for all of the kitchen appliances on the night stand.

At times, I wonder if I'm finally losing ground for good. As I get older, I've become aware of my attention fading in and out. I'll frequently stand in front of the ATM, trying to remember my 4-digit PIN, but all I can come up with is the theme song to “The Brady Bunch.” Which is commendable, but still leaves me without any lunch money. I've forgotten so many passwords, I just write them on outside of my credit cards and hope nobody gets hold of my wallet. I buy Post-its by the case and label the contents of every drawer, box or bottle with things that are important to locate sometime in the future – like tomorrow. I've also concluded that failing memory is the reason why all of the best chefs never write down any of their recipes – they'd simply never find them again. So, instead of referring to thick cookbooks, you'll usually see them grabbing handfuls of oregano, slinging it into a large bowl with a pinch of saffron and a smidgen of fenugreek.

Over the years, I've tried numerous approaches to recapturing the information that has taken flight. On my doctor's orders, I've tried ways to stimulate my memory by getting more exercise, sleeping in the buff and learning how to laugh. He also suggested that I try varying my routines by eating while blindfolded, learning how to juggle, changing my clothes every hour, conversing in Flemish and speaking to women in Braille.

I don't know where all my accumulated knowledge has gone since those first days, drooling in my bassinet. I keep stuffing it in but eventually, it just seeps out – like air from an old, worn inner tube. And, it doesn't seem to matter what type of thoughts I try to dredge up. Normally, I wouldn't mind losing a few principles of beginning Calculus. But, when I'm struggling to introduce my wife to my office mate, it can be a real problem when I can't remember her name – even after living with her for 15 years. They call those incidents brainfarts, and they've been responsible for more than a few nights spent sleeping on the couch.

Eventually, I suppose it'll get so bad that someone will have to commit me to a nursing home - one of those places where they stuff people into tiny rooms because they can't remember if their toothpaste goes in their mouth or in their ear. The places where they hang your spoon around your neck, so you won't lose it and tie your shoelaces together so you won’t get too far. But, in the meantime, I'm doing pretty well by looking for the different colored tape on the floor and following it to the index card that tells me what to do next.

 

Allen Smith, of Vail, Colorado is the author of “Watching Grandma Circle the Drain” and “Ski Instructors Confidential.” He can be reached www.snowwriter.com.

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