What Was That Blog Topic Anyway?

I was all set to write my blog, but first I needed some breakfast.  I poured my signature bowl of Special K, sliced a perfect banana on top—not too green and not too ripe—and then dripped some milk over the flakes.  For years I ate my cereal dry, but I have learned to moisten it a bit with milk.  I use just enough dairy product to soften slightly, leaving a crunch in the bite and avoiding the pooling of nasty “dirty milk” in the bottom of the bowl.  Since childhood, I have abhorred the milky residue of the cereal bowl—warm milk polluted with crumbs and sweeteners, not to mention the telltale rainbow dyes of artificial food colors.  Over the decades I have evolved a precise and perfectly acceptable cereal presentation, provided that I complete it quickly without delay.

In just this amount of time I forgot the topic that had gotten me revved up into my daily dose of writerhead.  This is the scourge of the fifty-something.  I cannot remember what I meant to do for as long as it takes me to get to doing it.  Recently, I donned coat and scarf, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed out the door.  It took until I had carefully backed my car out of the garage for me to realize that I had no idea where I was going or why.  I searched the car for clues.  Had I put a bag of laundry in the trunk?  Was there a shopping list?  Were their appointments noted on my iphone calendar?  Embarrassed, I switched the car from reverse to drive and scooted back into the garage.

I am growing annoyed by this latest sign that the years are adding up.  I have a constant ringing in my ears of the message my daughter whispered to me as I dropped her off at college, “Don’t get old, mom.”  For her sake and for mine, I am doing the best that I can to avoid it.  I am already plagued by more arthritic joints than anyone should amass in a lifetime.  Please, G-d.  Don’t take my mind, too.

The other day, just for fun, I was dazzling my husband with the strength of my steel-trap memory.  I could recite the phone number from my childhood home, and even the long-distance number and address from when my grandparents lived in the Bronx.  I remember lines and lines of poetry I memorized in the six-grade poetry challenge (my favorite poem is still Ozymandias by Shelley, although sometimes I forget and think it’s by Coleridge).  In my heyday, I had as close to a photographic memory as I can imagine.  I could read a book for school and then find the quotes I needed for a paper by turning to the precise page almost instantly.  I used to memorize music almost instantly upon playing a piece for the first time.  I could remember what was taught in class without taking good notes.  Even when I began my professional career, I was capable of managing my business calendar without writing anything down.  I would show up at meetings and travel to clients, never missing a beat—and never writing down an appointment or a contact name.

Those days are long gone.  Now, I need alerts and a GPS just to find my way through the day.  My daughter gets impatient with me because I do not remember things she told me two months ago, or fifteen minutes ago.  I try to explain that while she is managing just her life, I function as mission control for the family, juggling four people to her one.  The administrivia of her life does not make my greatest hits list.  But she does not buy it.  She just calls me sad.

I refuse to give up or give in.  I am nothing if not adaptable.  And I have all the wonders of an iphone!  Now, I make lists using the Notes function, and painstakingly enter appointments on my Calendar.  It is a simple system that is nearly foolproof.  I only have to remember one thing—to look at my phone. 

I still cannot remember what it was I sat down to write.  Perhaps that idea will cycle back around in another day or so.  But it doesn’t really matter, as it seems that I have a blog fully written right in front of me.  I wonder when I did that?