"What did you do this weekend?"
"Hm. You know, I can't remember!"
"That's pretty bad, Katie. It's only Monday."
I've noticed my memory is taking a progressive nosedive with each passing year. I'm unable to retain information like I used to. Birthdays, phone numbers, what I did yesterday, I have to pause for an unusually long and uncomfortable moment to try to remember, and sometimes I still can't. I've been using my mother as a scapegoat. Her defective memory has been the butt of jokes since I was a child, and I've been blaming her for maliciously passing it along to me. I thought it was some sort of revenge, you know? Like "The Mother's Curse", only she hasn't cursed me with six intolerable children, she's cursed me with the inability to remember a conversation I had 30 minutes ago.
Whether my mom is to blame or not, I can't stand this feeling. It feels like I've been battling schizophrenia, especially when Jon brings up a conversation we had last week, and for the life of me, I can't remember it. It's as if he spoke to an entirely different person.
Another part of me wonders if I'm not paying attention anymore, as if my observation skills, or interest in what's going on around me, are lacking. Perhaps it's not my memory, but my attention span that is waning. I have to start paying more attention. I have to stop letting my mind wander, and try to live more in the moment. I don't want to forget how I spent my weekend, and I'd like to stop looking like an idiot every time I ask, "What are you talking about?"