I Forget

For the past two three months, I've been meaning to write about my forgetfulness. But I keep forgetting. The only comfort here is that I know I'm not the only one feeling increasingly scatterbrained. According to my favorite kvetch-mates and fellow aging goddesses, forgetting the day, week or month; forgetting the names of the famous and the not-famous; mixing up words (pediatrician for veterinarian, fork for knife); repeating questions ("Are you watching 'Dead To Me'?" "You just asked me that two minutes ago?" "@#$%!"), and losing focus can't be blamed on menopause. We already went through that ordeal. No. This thing that plagues so many of us is, what else, Quarantino-related.

Just how many times have I Corona-Googled the why's of my daily ditziness? For an accurate number, I turned to my search history. Eight times in the past three weeks, I've re-read the same New York Times article. Should I be freaked out? Is it time for a brain scan? Will Tequila help? 'Cuz I'm finding Tequila very helpful. What the "experts" are saying comes down to this: Months of lockdown and constant stress are making us meshugie. Our keppies detect all the stress and release adrenaline and cortisol, signaling the fight or flight response. Good if a jungle beast is chasing us. Not good if a deadly virus with no vaccine is chasing us. So what do to do? What. To. Do? Eat healthier. Exercise more. Drink less. Watch less news. Start a project. Stop overindulging. Start. Stop. Two steps forward. One step back. No wonder I keep forgetting this advice. It's all the stuff I'm already doing, with varying degrees of success.