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I miss my brain.
I recall a time when I didn’t need to write lists and paste sticky notes to my forehead to remember things. I think I remember that. Maybe I read it somewhere.
Adulting does that to a person. As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up so that I could do whatever was on my mind, and no one could tell me no.
Now that I’m grown up, my body tells me no all the time, and my mind is nowhere to be found. It got buried beneath a swirl of deadlines, doctors’ reports, bills and random snippets of lyrics from the 1970s (“Muskrat Suzie, Muskrat Sam / Do the jitterbug out in Muskrat Land / And they shimmy… Sam is so skinny…”)
It’s like a meme I once saw: “My brain is like an internet browser: 17 tabs are open. Nine of them are not responding. Thousands of popups block the screen. And where is that music coming from?”
The clutter and stresses of life have turned me into that person who walks into the bathroom, then tries to recall why.
In the old days, I figured out my algebra homework in my head. I yawned through mazes. I didn’t bother writing anything down.
That was before kids’ birthdays, anniversaries, appointments and PIN numbers jammed and crammed all useful informtion out of the available random access memory in my gray matter hard drive. Now I’m a one-man, no-mind sitcom.
Just the other night, Terry asked me to put something in her car.
“Sure,” I said. I pulled out my car keys, put on my coat, then dug through my pocket.
“Where in the world did I put my car keys now?”
My brain roused from a nap. “In your hand.”
“Oh. Heh-heh, did I do that again?” I started out the door.
“Wait!” my brain barked. “Those are YOUR car keys.”
Ha! I wouldn’t look like a guy who lost his mind THIS time. That’s what I thought. I didn’t realize that my brain was operating on low wattage backup power in the “sleep” mode.
I stepped back inside, plucked the other set of keys off the pegs by the back door and set out to unlock Terry’s car.
The key wouldn’t fit. I pushed, twisted and turned the thing, but it refused.
Oh, wrong hand. That’s the one holding my car key.
With a rueful smile, I switched hands and... couldn’t unlock the door. Push, twist, turn and... nothing.
I examined the keys in one hand. In the other. They looked a lot alike.
Oh, great. I didn’t grab the keys for her car. I picked up the spare set for my own car.
“Brain, I wish you would kick in,” I groused. My brain has a mind of its own.
I stomped back inside the house, picked up the correct set of keys, stomped back to her car. It opened.
Why? Was I supposed to drive it somewhere?
My sluggish brain stirred. “Put the box in the car,” it mumbled.
Oh. Yeah. I looked. I didn’t have a box.
Back inside the house I went. “Terry, where’s that box that I’m putting in your car?”
“Right in front of the door. You had to step over it every time you went in or out.”
Oh. THAT box.
Scoop up the box. Head to the car. Grab the door handle.
Locked.
“I told you not to push that button,” my brain muttered.
“Shut up and help me find the keys,” I snapped.
“I’m outta here,” my brain grumbled, and left.
And that’s how I lost my mind. If you find it wandering around out there somewhere, please DON’T return it. It doesn’t work. But if you see my car keys, I could use those.
I miss my brain.
-- If you stumbled over either his brain or car keys, contact Cole at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com, the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook, or www.burtonwcole.com.