Or that I remember the name of the boy I first had a crush on and how he broke my heart during a game of Kiss Catch in the playground by catching me and tickling me instead of kissing me?
Or what Husband said during most every fight we have had? Why is it that I can remember all that but when I go to the grocery store later, I will forget the one major thing I came in for? Even if it’s written on my list, and I’m looking at my list and checking things off my list?
Why can’t I clear out the clutter in my memory like I can my closet? Why can’t I purge useless things like the birthday of my best friend from 5th grade and replace it with people I know and love now? Why do I still need to know how to get to my Grandmother’s house through the woods in Monterey? Although, now that I’ve just stated that, I like that I still remember how to sneak through the secret path to the 17mile drive in Monterey and past beach to her house. And the closet comparison is not the greatest one. My closet is full of items I have not worn in years. Either because they don’t fit but I still like them or because wearing a little black dress to the grocery store is not my thing.
Husband likes to say he has a photographic memory. He likes to say he will put something down or pack something in a box say a year and half ago and still remember where it is. And, when he can’t find it - because really, that’s BS – it’s because I moved it. I am the guilty one. It’s why he can’t find the thingumajig that supposed to boost the remote on the TV. He “…knew it was in this box.” “No, that box. No, it must be in that box over there. Wait, didn’t know I had this thing. Oh, that’s where the box is for that…” Not to mention the DIY supplies we have duplicates and triplicates of because he “couldn’t find it…” when he was looking for it and went and bought another and then another. Which is obviously my fault.
See, I can remember everything that Husband does wrong but I can’t remember to buy the stupid onions when I’m in the store.
Yesterday, while driving to work with the top of the car down, sun shining and the world generally looking and acting beautiful, that song from Pink Floyd came on. The song I don’t know the title of but can remember the words and all the times I listed to it crying in my room in high school because Bob (not his real name) did me wrong. That song. I sang that sucker all the way through, dramatic pauses, vocal gymnastics and everything, all the way through the chichi neighborhood of Belle Meade, sharing my memory with the world. I’m sure to have passed one famous – not that I’d know it – singer who winced at my rendition but sing away I did. Thank you, to the old guy who slowed down for a listen. You’re welcome, woman in the Mercedes who watched me in her rearview mirror. Teenagers laughing and pointing at me on the corner, this will be you someday but Bieber will not sound as awesome as Floyd.
It’s a useless talent, remembering things that matter to no one but me but it is one I am going to have to own with pride. Because I sure can’t remember any other stupid thing I’m supposed to.