An active life leads to a filled-up memory
By:Minx McCloud
On the way to our friends’ house on Long Island this past weekend, Jim suggested we take a different route than we usually do.
I always drive when we go someplace, not because he can’t drive, but because I get carsick if I’m not behind the wheel. After spending the first month in our relationship pulling over to the side of the road so I could upchuck, he finally surrendered control of the car to me.
Anyway, we were tootin’ along the Long Island Expressway when Jim said, "Take the Northern State Parkway to Wolf Hill Road and go that way instead."
"Fine," I said agreeably, since he’s a very good navigator. "How do I get there?"
"How can you not remember?" he said in amazement. "We used to take it all the time when we visited Allan and Lois!"
"Well, I don’t remember," I argued. "That was almost 20 years ago, and I have more important things on my mind now. Why would I remember some obscure route we used to take when we’ve been going this way for two decades?"
When we got to the party, it happened again. Jim was reminded of an incident that took place about 10 years ago, which I could not for the life of me remember.
He poked and prodded my brain verbally, insisting that the memory was in there somewhere, but apparently it had taken a vacation in Fiji, because I couldn’t locate it. For some reason, the thought that I might be suffering from premature senility really upset him.
He and a couple of buddies commiserated with each other because they too had gone through the same thing. One man’s wife had forgotten the time he caught a 28-inch largemouth bass in an apparently ‘fishless’ lake, and the other man’s wife could not remember a particularly fascinating football game they had attended together.
The men tsk-tsked as they discussed our apparent loss of mental faculties. At that point, it became necessary for me to educate them, and here is what I told them:
Let’s face it. Men don’t have a heck of a lot to remember. My husband, for example, has to remember when to mow the lawn and how often to clean the pool. He has to know the names of the people he works with and where they stand in the pecking order. That’s about it.
He does have to retain all the details of his job as a programmer/analyst, but it’s deeply ingrained and I daresay he could do it in his sleep. (Actually, when we get one of those 3 a.m. emergency calls from tech support, he often does.)
A tiny portion of his brain is designated for "Favorite Movies/TV shows/Books," and another for a few simple recipes in case I keel over one day and he has to cook for himself.
I, on the other hand, have to remember all the things he doesn’t care to (including the names of his co-workers and their spouses’ names as well).
I also take care of birthdays, anniversaries, clothing sizes, paying bills, renting a video, returning library books, taking the car to the mechanic, shopping and meal planning, the laundry schedule, and everybody’s phone numbers and addresses.
I not only have to remember the names of all my friends’ kids, but when they were born, what schools they attended, and how many children of their own they now have.
If we go on a trip, I handle reservations, packing lists and tour arrangements.
I deal with the bank, the lawyers, the PSE&G people, the cleaners, the veterinarian, the doctors, and the repairmen. If there are problems with the insurance, the mortgage or our wills, I take care of them.
I keep the house clean, and have, on occasion, mediated my friends’ problems – all this while holding down two part-time jobs and doing volunteer work.
If we go to a party, it’s my job to reintroduce him to all the people who were not worthy of a space of their own in his brain.
All these little details are zipping around in my head, and I still have to save some room for the really important memories (our wedding day comes to mind). I have no room left to retain jokes, words to songs, routes we used to take, or movies I like (which is why I can watch a movie again and never remember having seen it previously).
All I ask is that my husband goes to work each day, keeps the pool clean (one season a year) and mows the lawn (ditto). I have to handle everything else in our entire freaking lives and find room in my brain to preserve the information for the next time I need it.
And that, gentlemen, is why you have so much space in your brains that you can hear an echo when the Sports Illustrated bathing suit models softly call your name from the fantasy room (located slightly to the left of the cerebellum).
It is also why we women often don’t remember what you consider the important things in life, such as where you left your lucky fishing hat or the time that you ate 14 hot dogs on the boardwalk in Atlantic City.
This week, I’m arranging my parents’ 53rd anniversary (which my husband conveniently forgot). If you hear a loud pop on Saturday, it’s probably my head exploding.
Minx McCloud is a free-lance journalist who writes about life in New Jersey. She can be reached at [email protected].