Memories are great – if only I could remember them


At the risk of stating the bleeding obvious… age is a weird thing. I spent my teens willing myself to get taller, grow boobs, be, well older. My 20s were much the same. “Are you the cadet reporter?” Er, no I was the bloody editor! Now staring down the barrel of 50 years there are many things that I obsess on – the slow creep of gravity, the lack of long, lingering looks from passing male strangers, the ever-increasing invisibility of my age group. My biggest concern of late has been my burgeoning fear that I am suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s. Panic not. It transpires I’m not or, if I am, I share this new experience with my peer set. I used to convince myself that my inability to get to the top of the stairs without completely forgetting why I was there was because I was a busy PR consultant, mother of two kids and I had too much on my plate. That might indeed be the case but it’s not the whole picture. Now it is patently obvious that the little grey cells are seriously depleting.

Where I used to bond with my girlies over our love of Duran Duran and hot boys we now talk over each other trying to better some ridiculous story of how brainless we are. I recently found my favourite pair of shoes inside the dryer. I can’t even begin to understand what I must have been thinking. A friend, equally as menopausal and hilarious, lost her laptop and found it in the dishwasher! I hate that I play a cracker of a word in Scrabble but cannot remember the very same word just days later.

I no longer trust my memory to deliver, with certainty, pretty much anything that requires recall. If it happened more than an hour previously chances are I have got a warped impression which bares only a passing relationship with what actually happened. My children have worked this out and play on my inability to trust my memories. They play with my mind! It pisses me off.

I have become the woman that writes everything down and gathers people – young, fresh, unsullied, beautiful minds (did I mention young?) around me to assist me to keep vital information at the forefront of my collapsing cerebral cortex. I mean, sheesh, what’s a good PR person to do if they cannot remember the deadlines??

You know the phrase: “She has forgotten more than you will ever know”? I am that person or, at least, I think I am if only I could remember what I have forgotten!

There is more solace than you can imagine in sharing this affliction with other glorious women of a certain age. I am not alone. We are legion (dear God I had to actually look up how to spell that!) We laugh and laugh and laugh. The best bit is we can have the very same conversations a month later and laugh like its the first time.

So I guess part of starting a blog at the ripe old age of 46 and a half is to record bits of my brain. For me. Ok maybe for me and my potty friends but mainly for me. Oh don’t get me wrong. I am not taking this memory loss lying down (that’s a lie, I adore lying down). I will rage against the dying of the synapses. I will take measures to continue to gather bright minds who can continue to recall things for me. I will go to nightclubs and party like I am 25 but rely a little too heavily on others to recount the antics.

And I will take lots and lots of photos. If only I can remember where my camera is!