I quit taking French lessons a few weeks ago, mostly because I found myself writing very large checks, and then forgetting to show up to my class. There is nothing more embarrassing than congratulating yourself on all the “extra” time you found on a Thursday morning, only to receive a phone call asking why your instructor is sitting alone at a table with only her Le Francais essentiel and no sign of her student.
It’s also embarrassing for the piano teacher to call you as you sit applying lipstick in the grocery store parking lot, an hour after the piano lesson was scheduled, asking politely “Umm, so I guess you’re not coming?”. It’s even more embarrassing to arrive at school to collect your daughter, only to be informed by a fellow nine-year old that your kid is at running club this afternoon. Duh. The only thing that made me feel remotely better about the latter situation was the little girl’s response, “Oh, don’t worry. My Dad does this kind of stuff all the time.” Knowing I’m not the only half-baked human-being responsible for raising little people makes me feel better. Sort of.
I don’t know when this slow slide into middle-aged, scheduling-induced dementia began, but I don’t see it resolving anytime soon. I guess we should all be grateful I don’t practice as a nurse anymore. Who knows what kind of medical high-jinks I might engage in, or more likely, forget to do altogether. My steadfast commitment to remaining a kept woman is really an effort to protect the world at large from my particular brand of crazy. For which the medical community thanks me.
