What did I for­get to write this col­umn about?

The Covington News - - Opinion -

I have a re­cur­ring dream. In it, I’m in col­lege, walk­ing down the street with my wife (who I didn’t meet un­til af­ter col­lege) and Danny DeVito (who I didn’t meet be­fore or af­ter col­lege), feel­ing tall, when I sud­denly re­mem­ber that I signed up for a class, went once or twice, but have failed to go any more for the se­mes­ter. And the fi­nal for the class is be­ing held in an hour.

I can’t re­ally re­call ex­actly what hap­pens af­ter that point in the dream — I usu­ally wake up in a hot sweat, or a child kicks me in the shin. I con­sulted an on­line “dream an­a­lyzer” about my dream/night­mare, and it came up with one rea­son why I con­stantly imag­ine this sce­nario. It sim­ply stated: You’re nuts. A dis­tinct pos­si­bil­ity. But a more prob­a­ble root is my pen­chant for for­get­ting things. It has come to the point that I for­get so many things — ap­point- ments, birth­days, an­niver­saries, en­tire weeks, hol­i­day sea­sons, my mid­dle name — that I spend a lot of time wor­ry­ing about what I’ve forgotten.

Ev­ery af­ter­noon at around 3:30 p.m., my mind wan­ders through the same tired cy­cle.

“OK, mind, I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but let’s work to­gether for once and re­mem­ber some­thing that I’m sure we’re for­get­ting,” I say aloud to my­self and any­one within earshot.

I then be­gin to think about what I pos­si­bly could be for­get­ting. Have I lost my check­book to­day? No. Have I forgotten to pay a bill to­day? Of course. Am I wear­ing clothes? Yes — but what were you think­ing? Was I sup­posed to pick up the kids from school? Uh oh. Was I? Okay, let’s go down the list. Old­est child — no. Af­ter­school pro­gram. Sec­ond child — no. Also af­ter­school pro­gram. Third child — no. I think he’s at child care. Fourth child — uh, ah, oh my, that’s it. I have forgotten to pick up our fourth child. That poor baby, al­ways forgotten, al­ways get­ting hand-me-downs, al­ways left out, al­ways the last thing on my mind.

I get up and start to walk out the door to pick up our youngest, most ne­glected child. Then my mind fi­nally de­cides to join in the ex­er­cise, and I re­call that we don’t have a fourth child.

So, the good news is: We don’t have four chil­dren.

But I had to for­get some­thing. It is Mon­day, or maybe Thurs­day.

Did I for­get my glasses? No. I re­mem­ber los­ing them a week ago (They are small, round, and glassy. If you find some­thing that meets that de­scrip­tion, other than Liza Minnelli, please con­tact me on my lost cell phone).

Did I for­get a meet­ing? Did some­one tell me two weeks ago to meet them some­where about some­thing on some day? I bet that’s what I for­got.

Did I for­get some­thing my wife told me to do? I don’t think so — I would have re­ceived a re­minder by now (she knows me). Do I have an­other wife that told me some­thing to do? I doubt it. I can barely han­dle one wife. Even I’m not that dumb, from what I re­call.

Should I be wor­ry­ing about some­thing I for­got that I can’t re­mem­ber? Some­one — I for­got who — once told me that wor­ry­ing is a sin. You should just present your wor­ries to God and let him han­dle it. Now that I re­mem­ber that, I’m wor­ried that I’m sin­ning be­cause I’m wor­ried I for­got some­thing. Good, an­other thing to for­get.

Ex­as­per­ated, I put my sweaty head in my hands. I then looked down and a sight jos­tled my old me­mory glands: I wrote down what I needed to re­mem­ber. A ha! I’m a ge­nius!

Un­for­tu­nately, I wrote this re­minder on my hand, and the sweat from my fore­head smeared the ma­jor­ity of my scrawl. The only part I could make out was “Write col­umn about...,” then it’s just a blur of ink.

Hmm. Now, what was I go­ing to write a col­umn about?

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