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Posts Tagged ‘short-term memory loss’

The other day I found myself looking at a woman in the museum who looked vaguely familiar. And indeed, she was looking right back at me – which, if I were a normal person, might have led me to assume that she thought she knew me, too. However, I’ve learnt the hard way that people mostly look at me in public because I am wearing my lunch all over my face.

This time it was different, however.

“It’s [NDM], isn’t it?” the woman said to me.

Somewhat overlooking the fact that she had just addressed me by name, I blurted out “Do I know you or are you famous???”.

Turns out, she was someone that I had met at a party three weeks previously and chatted quite amiably with for an extended period of time.  Yes, only three weeks had passed and already her face and name had receded into the mists of my mind.

Admittedly, I live most of my life in a bit of a fog.  But every now and then, however, that fog lifts and I am suddenly capable of anything and everything.

Why, just the other day, I ventured into the local monster mall with Tiddles “The Enemy Of Shopping” McGee. In just one hour, I managed to buy seven presents and three pairs of school trousers for two different kids at six different shops. And I still had time to buy and eat lunch in the food court – and by “eat”, I mean actually chew and not just swallow. I repeat: all in one hour.

Of course, transporting McGee around the shops strapped into his stroller like he was Hannibal Lecter on a prison transfer certainly helped.

Still, I was kicking goals and I let everyone know it, via the magic of twitter.

However, it didn’t take long for the fog to begin its descent again.

Because I had been so busy showing off to the twitterverse, I was slightly late for the school pick-up and ended up having to park closer to my house than the actual school. And by the time I got to The Pixie’s classroom with a regretfully untethered McGee, there was no sign of her anywhere.

A school-wide search ensued with several members of the CrankyPants family acting as lead scouts, recruiting others as they went. The Pixie was finally located, after about ten minutes, in a far-flung corner of the school, apparently having gone there to “save the environment by cleaning up a spill” (And no, I wasn’t so late that she’d made it as far as the Gulf of Mexico).

Anyway, I thanked the rather large search party for their help and made it as far as the school gates before I realised Mr Justice might not be, as I had assumed by his absence, at that playdate I’d arranged that very morning for the following day.

Yes, you read that correctly: for the following day.

And so I had to spin around on my heels and reenter into the playground where everyone was looking at me as if to say “Who have you lost now?” and I had to admit to my rather large oversight. Another CrankyPants-led search party set off and within 5 minutes, I received intelligence that Mr Justice had been spotted merrily playing soccer on the oval. I was about to charge out there and personally spear tackle him to the ground when MotherOfCrankyPants sidled up to me and whispered “Uh, isn’t [Mr Justice] doing that after-school sports program today?”

“Yes. Yes, he is,” I whispered back, blushing deeply. After all, it wasn’t like he’d reminded me of the fact about SEVENTEEN TIMES that morning or anything.

And as I set off on the long walk back to the car, I took some small comfort in the fog surrounding me. At least it shielded me from the looks of the other parents.

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Whatever your opinion on Groovy Young Things, one thing is clear: they generally don’t live around my ‘hood.

Traditionally, our suburb – although less than 10km from the city – is populated by aged persons and young families. It’s just how it is. It’s a bit like Perth: most of the population between the ages of twenty and thirty get the hell out.

But listen, it’s not like I’m totally cut off from the world of Groovy Youngters or anything, okay?

My dear friend Mzzzz E remains a steady link between their world and mine  – for example, it’s thanks to her I know that these days the young people are drinking coca-cola and red wine cocktails known as “Bambas” or “Calimocho”. Which has only confirmed my fears that there is no possible future for the human race in the hands of such people. No future at all.

Oh, and I occasionally cross town to be seated next to and served by GYTs in trendy bars and cafés, where I inevitably end up pulling out that sanitary napkin randomly floating around my handbag instead of my wallet when it comes time to pay.

Anyway, at a recent community picnic near our home, I spied at least three Groovy Young Things standing unabashedly near the Scouts’ Sausage Sizzle stand. It was disconcerting to say the least.

“Look over there,” I hissed to my friends MGK and RR. “Those people are young and attractive. It’s, like, freaking me out.”

In fact, it was freaking me out so much that I just wanted to rush up and order them to return at once to the inner-city tapas-punk-fusion bar they’d ironically crawled out of.

“They really should leave,” I moaned. “They’re making me feel… well, they’re making me feel old.

There, I said it. The vintage floral skirt I’d chosen to wear that day suddenly felt decidedly mumsy. I noticed I had grease marks on my breasts made by the small hands of a preschooler yielding a “piggy in a blanket”. I knew for a fact that there was a bottle of low-joule, low-alcohol champagne chilling in my fridge at home. I was wearing Birkenstock clogs for fuck’s sake.

“Oh, I turned 34 earlier this week,” RR said to me, oh-so-casually. “I’m now officially mid-30s.”

“Oh, my bleeding heart,” was my appalled reaction. Here I was, thinking he was One Of Us and he was pretty much One Of Them. It was galling, to say the least.

Eventually, the Groovy Young Things moved off (to groovier pastures which served Calimochos, no doubt) and I was left to glare at RR and his thirty-four year-old ways.

When I got home, I told my husband about the terrible situation that had befallen us all at the picnic and how those GYTs had stood around totally unaware of what harm they were causing by their very presence. And how RR had then revealed himself to be practically young.

“How dare they!” I said. “How very dare they all!”

My husband then admitted to me that, while his short-term memory might be completely shite, his long-term memory was crystal clear.

“I remember, with absolute clarity, what it felt like to be young,” he said. “And part of that was swearing never – ever! – to become what I am today.”

“But at least you can’t remember what you are today,” I remarked. “You know, short-term memory loss and all.”

And we both laughed and laughed – until we forgot what we were laughing about, that is.

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