Little Miss Forgetful

Everyone always jokes about how forgetful I am - and have always been. But of course I can’t remember funny examples of things I can’t remember.
My friend Sarah is the antithesis of me. She remembers what we were wearing at a restaurant we went to three years ago. And what we ate. Sick.

I’ve learned to just smile and nod. Smile and nod.

My memory is so bad I can’t recall what I wore to work last week. What I did this past weekend (well I guess that can be construed as legit).

Growing up, my mother was constantly yelling at me to do things before I forgot - to put something near the door so I’d remember it in the morning, to pack my bag while I was thinking about it.

After twenty-six years of nagging, you would think I’d of learned to follow her advice.

But noooooooooo.

My lossage is snowballing out of control. For reals. And this little deteriorating memory-o-mine came to an ugly climax last week.
I, bad kid that I am, have been to the gym about three times the past three weeks. (Hey, I was on summer vaca!)

But September 1st, the second New Year, marked a necessary revisit to some resolutions. Like: Work out! And so...I dragged myself to the gym. Ugh.

After ellipticizing (a girl’s workout of choice, obvi), I booked it back to the locker room to grab my bags and go. I had somewhere to be!
I don’t know what happened next. I think I might have blocked it from my mind because it was so scarring (or perhaps I just forgot!) You see, when I threw down my book, towel, iPod, water bottle, and tried to open my locker, I couldn’t for the life of me remember my combination.

38-10-22. No. 36-22-10. No. 22-10-38. No. I started to panic.

I knew there was a 30-something, a 20-something and a 10 in there but could not, could NOT seem to conjure up that all-important but extremely trivial little combo. All I wanted was to free my belongings from their smelly locker cell!

Tears brimmed my eyes, threatening further embarrassment. First I couldn’t remember my combination, then I was going cry about it? Really Katie? Really?

I decided to take a breather. I went out back to the stretching area, sat on a mat, put on some Beethoven, and tried to relax. Tried to coax those stupid, insignificant numbers of great significance back into my brain.
Unfortunately I, like my mother before me, am incapable of relaxing. My brain is a goddamn pinball machine, constantly darting and pinging around from one incoherent thought to the next no matter how hard I try to quiet it.

Ten minutes later, I moped back to the locker room, having failed to extract the combo from the swamp that was is my anxious-memory-loss-Alzheimer’s-onset-ridden mind.

But this only made matters worse! Those elusive numbers would not present themselves. And so, finally, I called the front desk. And they brought in the clippers.

I hid my face in shame as a girl a foot shorter than me wrestled with ginormous, twenty-four-inch long lock-clipping shears.

Miraculously, my stupid lock survived its thrashing. It lived to lock another day! And, always one for that poignant, ironic moment - I remembered the combination an hour later.

38-21-10. So close yet so far!

Needless to say, my confidence in my non-existent memory has officially been reduced to a not-so-healthy zilch. Zippo. Zero. Nada.
This week I shall invest in the fancier line of locks - the kind you can program.

At least I don’t think I can forget my birthday...