I am standing at the front door, locked out of my own house. If this were a movie, it’d be raining. Thankfully, this isn’t so it isn’t. But the reality is embarrassing enough without any Hollywood embellishments.
You see, we have this digital lock. To open it, you input a numeric code. We bought it months ago, and I’ve been using it without incident. But now, standing out here in the dark, I am, suddenly and for no apparent reason, stuck. After a moment, with more hope than confidence, I punch in some numbers.
Some wrong numbers. Instead of the lock disengaging, the keypad displays an intimidating red “x.” I search my brain for the right numbers, but it’s locked tighter than the door. I can’t remember.
I find myself saying that a lot lately as I creep toward the 30th commemoration of my 30th birthday. Reminds me of an old expression: “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” Don’t know who said that. Maybe I once did but if so, I don’t remember. Indeed, the list of things I don’t remember is growing long.
There is, for instance, my employee ID number, necessary for filing expense reports and viewing pay stubs. (Yes, they pay me for this. I’m as surprised as you are.) But it’s not just numbers.
The other day, I was telling this guy about taking my granddaughter to the circus. I’m going on and on about this stuff I bought her that’s fluffy and sugary and it comes in clouds of pink and blue and you eat too much and it makes you sick. Finally, mercifully, he says, “cotton candy?” A few weeks ago, I have to ask a colleague what’s that word for a person who receives money after the death of a family member. “Heir?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say to her. “Duh,” I say to myself.
Numbers and words are bad enough. But I also walk into rooms for reasons I can’t recall, open browsers and can’t remember why.