It had been one of those days, an endless blur of errands and activities. Now I'd lost my keys and was frantic because we were headed out again. I finally found my keys in the sofa, whisked both girls outside and into the car. I took one last look in the back seat to make sure I hadn't forgotten one of the kids, because according to those Lifetime movies that sort of thing happens more than you might think.
But there was one problem. I COULDN'T REMEMBER WHERE WE WERE GOING. Honestly, for a few seconds (okay, maybe more) I could not figure out what it was that I'd been rushing around for. I glanced at what I had brought thinking it might provide a clue as to our activity/destination. Maybe a dance bag, a picnic lunch or a book on 'What To Do When You Meet Oprah' might jog my memory. Unfortunately the only thing in my hand was a hot cup of coffee, which was no help at all unless we were going to heaven which was highly unlikely.
I finally did remember where we were going (to meet another family at a movie.) And since the girls were so young, I was still able to use the "Damn kids stole my memory" excuse. In fact, when we arrived at the theater, my friend topped my story by recalling how she'd left the house in only her bra and yoga pants the day before. Instead of making me feel better it made me wish I'd exaggerated mine a little more by adding that I'd accidentally robbed a liquor store on the way over. That happened in a Lifetime movie, too.
My kids are older now. Teenagers don't require as much of my help getting ready, besides putting my purse where they can find it so they can fish out a twenty. There aren't as many activities that require my driving – they're experts at taking the Metro, and I've carefully trained them to ask their dad first.
But sadly my absent-mindedness has endured. Take yesterday – I'd been focusing on a prominent, thick white hair that seemed to have sprouted out of my scalp overnight. It taunted me with it's brightness, refusing to hide behind the other darker, younger, hotter-looking hairs.
When I finally did decide to yank it out, I was surprised to discover that it wasn't a white hair at all, but a thin string of cheese. Apparently I'd gotten more involved with my omelet that morning than I remember. I made a note to myself to go back to using utensils when eating.
But instead of being elated, I was shocked. Foodstuffs ending up on my body unbeknownst to me? I think this was a new low, much worse than the oatmeal-on-my-lapel that was so cute when you have babies to care for. I made light of it by making a humorous cheese-in-my-hair joke to myself, but I was secretly mortified to know that I was one step away from showing up at meetings with jam smeared all over the front of my colonial blouse.
I'm thinking it's all downhill from here. I'll start finding my purse in the freezer after having the family search for it all day. I'm going to start yelling because I can't control the TV with the remote, and the kids will have to gently tell me that I'm pointing my cell phone at the microwave. I'll wonder why my husband is ignoring me, and it'll be because I've been talking to the piano all morning.
But I can tell you one thing – I've never left the house in only my bra and yoga pants. Yet.
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