I am a forgetful person. The type who goes into the basement to get something and ends up standing slack-jawed at the bottom of the stairs wondering what I’m doing there. The kind who leaves the water running in the horses’ water tank ALL DAY and creates a skating rink around the barn. The kind who has left a trail of charred pots and pans at houses and apartments around the country because I always leave the soup cooking too long.
I write things down but forget to look at my list. Or I forget to write things down but remember to look at my list.
I remember the important things, like Bible verses I learned when I was 6, and the capitals of the states, and most things that have happened in my life.
Last Monday I asked someone how to spell a name, but then forgot to change it, so her name was wrong on the front page of the paper. Tuesday I forgot to tell my mom the kids were home sick from school, so she didn’t have to pick them up. She sat there waiting for them. When my brother saw her later, she was a bit upset that her kids don’t keep her informed.
I said she was probably also upset because I told her I didn’t file my income taxes last year.
Jeff said she’s probably picturing me in a white collar prison.
I thought about it for a minute and said, “That sounds pretty good right now. I wonder if I could commit a small crime and get sent away for six months or so.”