Coming to Grips with Forgetting

The other morning, my son wandered around our apartment courtyard eating dirt. A neighbor swept off her patio quietly.

I walked toward her. “I haven’t met you,” I said.

“Yes, you have, Polly,” she said. “In fact, I’ve met you twice since you moved in.”

I blinked. I smiled.

“My name is Mary,” she said.

She is very nice. After the awkward moment, we talked and she cooed over my delicious son - even though he tried to eat her potted hydrangea.

The very next day – no kidding, I walked in our building, and a woman I didn’t recognize walked in also. She had glasses and a ponytail.

“Hi, are you new here?” I said. I felt a tinge of pride about my friendly and outgoing approach.

“Really?” she said. It was Mary. She said it slowly with that colloquial tonality we all use now to say “really?” As a side note, I just moved all the way across the country, and this “really?” thing is everywhere. You just can’t get away from cool one-word phrases these days.

What can you say? What do you say? When you are a total idiot, there really isn’t much you can do. I told her I’d make her cookies, but like that’s gonna happen. I have come to grips with my mediocrity, and since pregnancy, boat-loads of brain cells have gone missing. The best I can do is admit that I’m a candidate for experimental Alzheimer drugs and follow my son around yanking the rocks out of his mouth. It’s a grim existence in some aspects, but in others, it’s refreshing. Everyday is something new, even if I never even leave my apartment complex.