It might be acceptable if I were Proust or 70

It’s disturbing that I can’t remember anything and I’ve begun to tell long, rambling stories about my youth.

For example, yesterday I got a call about a case and I couldn’t place the name at all…and the file was right on my desk. I was working on that file. That’s what I call a loser.

Today I couldn’t remember the name of the city where Scott Hamilton won his Olympic gold medal (Sarajevo). I knew it started with an S and that it was heavily damaged in the Bosnian War and all I could think of was Serbia, which is a country not a city. I didn’t remember to look it up until lunch time and as I started to look it up I remembered the name and almost squealed “Sarajevo!” in my cubby but I stopped before I made a fool of myself.

This morning I recall telling E some stupid lame-ass story about my youth. “When I was a kid, blah, blah, blah…” It seemed important at the time and now I can’t remember what it was but I’m pretty sure it was lame and boring. And it really bothers me that I can’t remember what the stupid story was.

And now I realize that today I also told the college-student-that-works-here that I saw Run DMC in the early 80’s before they were big and rap was commonplace. Like she cares.

I should just go get some ugly shoes and skorts already. And maybe a red hat. I’m turning into a 70 year old dottering woman and I’m not even 50.

And pretty soon I’ll start repeating myself. I should just go get some ugly shoes and skorts already. And maybe a red hat. I’m turning into a 70 year old dottering woman and I’m not even 50


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