I forgot the milk. Twice. What’s wrong with me? The first time was somewhat understandable. I mean, it was cold and I had been saving it for last, during my shopping trip to Target. Of course I checked and double-checked my list to make sure I had all the items on it, but “MILK” was first and my eye just skipped over it. Twice. Santa Claus I am not.
So I left the store with my three bags in a red cart, and the box of litter next to the bags. I traipsed across the parking lot to my car, put the bags and litter in the trunk, and then swore out loud (I wasn’t proud of it, but it happened). The milk wasn’t there. I seriously considered just continuing on to the library (my destination) and grabbing a carton of milk from the grocery store on my way to pick up Madeline from school. But I went back inside the store instead.
Finally having procured the milk, I stowed it on my passenger seat (so as not to forget it when I finally made it to the library) and made it to my destination. I grabbed the bag of milk from off the seat, proud of myself for remembering to bring it in. I placed it in the staff fridge (my wife is a librarian there) and promptly forgot about it. Even after she reminded me herself. I left the library and got all the way back to my car (my car is a fabulous memory device) before it hit me that I had done it again.
I swore out loud again. Luckily there was no one else around (and I wasn’t proud of it yet again).
Of course I trucked it back inside, grabbed the bag of milk from the fridge, and hustled back to my car, mumbling under my breath all the way. You see, it wasn’t just about the milk. It was about my memory. I used to pride myself on my memory, but things like what I’m already referring to as the “milk incident,” and other things that have happened lately, have led me to believe that I was mistaken all along about my memory. Either that or it has just utterly failed me after so much time. Maybe with a fair amount of use it wears out, like your conscience.