Well, it finally happened; my head is full. I can\u2019t put another thing in it. I thought it would be names that would put me over the top. But it was numbers that did it. I discovered the issue when I went to the college swimming pool after a seven-month absence. I had to renew my membership to get in. \u201cWhat\u2019s your old entry code,\u201d I was asked. \u201cUh, I think it is les.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But no, that wasn\u2019t it. I had to start from scratch: full name, driver\u2019s ID. Then my code popped up \u2013 les1942. I\u2019d forgotten the \u201c1942.\u201d I paid up and made it over that hurdle. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was similar to what happens when you check into a motel and they ask for your license plate number. I never know mine. We have two cars and I can\u2019t remember which plate goes with which car. THAT\u2019S A LIE! I don\u2019t know either plate number. As I started out saying, my head is full. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anyhow, I got registered at the pool, headed down the hall to the locker room door and punched 756 into the keypad; nothing happened; the door wouldn\u2019t open. Wrong number? Back to the main desk to ask if I remembered the code correctly. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, we changed it; it\u2019s now 648.\u201d Off I went chanting 648, 648, 648. I didn\u2019t want to have to go back to the desk and remove all doubt of how much of an idiot I really am. I made it into the room, got into my suit, and using a combination lock, secured my clothes, wallet and cell phone inside the locker. My combination is 7-28-5. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
That didn\u2019t come out of my head; it came from the back of the lock. I never removed the sticker that came with it. I knew at some point I\u2019d forget and wanted to avoid going to the front desk, dripping like a drowned rat, to ask if the janitor might have a set of bolt cutters to cut open my lock. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s the issue; all those numbers in my life, in everyone\u2019s life. Three sets to go for a swim. Four digits to get cash from an ATM. Go to the doctor and be asked, \u201cWhat year were you born?\u201d Knowing your name isn\u2019t enough to get you into the exam room. It\u2019s not a problem for me. I may not know how old I am, but for some reason I never forget my birth year. I guess it\u2019s because I use it all the time to figure out how old I am and then gasp in shock. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
When cell phones went mainstream, society got a reprieve. The phones took over the task of keeping track of the numbers we frequently call. But it only lasted a few years. Eventually, a bunch of new numbers to remember came our way. Now I can barely remember my own phone number. I can retrieve my childhood, five-digit number along with several others from that era. They are deep inside my brain and apparently insulated from memory lapses. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
We\u2019re inundated with numbers and codes: ATM pins, Social Security IDs, passwords, library card IDs, license plate numbers. It\u2019s a long list and a challenge to keep track of them. I hope I\u2019m not involved in an emergency; even 911 is getting difficult to extract from that swamp between my ears. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Think it\u2019s not a problem for you? Have you dated a check or a document this year and found you\u2019d written 2019 instead of 2020? No? Then your head\u2019s not full yet. But it will be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n