On Forgetfulness

Washing the car tonight, I noticed minuscule spots of what could only be rust dotting the silver paint. At first it seemed there were only a few, but as I scrubbed the soapy sponge over the side and around the back, more and more of these spots appeared. Reflecting upon this, I realized that a full year had passed since last I'd washed the car, a full year since I'd waxed it.

The dirt I washed off tonight had gathered during our June trip out west; why hadn't I cleaned it sooner? I didn't have the excuse of work, or lack of time, nor even of cool, rainy days. It's not that I dislike washing the car. Actually, I really enjoy spraying it down with a cool mist of water from the hose and watching the soapy water dissolve the dirt away.

If those rust spots become bigger, I will kick myself for forgetting to wash the car more often, just like I kicked myself this morning when I realized a rebate offer sitting on our kitchen table was supposed to have been postmarked by September 9.

If these were the only instances when memory failed me, I would shrug and move on. But yesterday at work, I was forced to explain with chagrin to my coworker that the printouts I had gone up to the office expressly to get, I had left sitting in the copy machine. And how many times has Matt had to say, "You already told me that" when I begin telling him the fascinating story of some recent event in my life.

The worst part is, I'm only 30.