Sorry, I Mentally Responded

Apparently thinking about doing something and actually doing it are no longer the same thing. Somebody might want to let my brain know.

Yesterday was my day off.

Well... “day off.”

If you own a business, you probably already know those aren't necessarily the same thing as an actual day off.

I went to the doctor. Got my HRT pellet. Had a very real conversation about where I am mentally and emotionally right now. Hit the salon supply store because apparently even on my day off I'm still a salon owner. Then I went and got my nails done.

Eventually, I found myself sitting down with a beer and some pizza.

Finally.

I took a bite.

Took a swig of beer.

And out of absolutely nowhere, my brain said:

KRISTEN.

Oh shit.

Kristen had texted me about her hair appointment.

I remembered reading the message.

I remembered knowing exactly what I was going to tell her.

I remembered formulating the response.

There was just one tiny problem.

Apparently I had neglected to include Kristen in the conversation.

So I grabbed my phone and texted her:

“Sorry. I mentally responded.”

She answered:

“Haha, I do that all the time.”

And that was it.

No explanation required.

Those are my people.

This Is New

Here's what makes this whole thing so strange for me.

I've always had a memory like an elephant.

I spent about twenty years in the restaurant industry, and for the last several of those years I was doing both—working restaurants and standing behind the chair.

My memory wasn't just good.

It was part of how I made my living.

I could walk up to a six- or eight-top, take everybody's order without writing down a damn thing, repeat the entire order back to the table, walk to the computer, enter it and never question whether I'd remembered it correctly.

Drinks.

Modifications.

Sides.

Temperatures.

Who ordered what.

I could do it all day.

And some days, I did.

Sixteen- to eighteen-hour shifts.

For years.

I trusted my brain.

That memory followed me into the salon too.

I have a knack for remembering the smallest details about people's lives.

Your grandchildren.

Where you went on vacation.

What was happening with your husband.

What your daughter was worried about.

Something you casually mentioned at your last appointment six weeks ago.

You'll sit back in my chair and I'll say:

“So whatever happened with...?”

And I'll remember.

But ask me what I ate for dinner last night?

Couldn't tell you if my life depended on it.

What did I wear yesterday?

Hell if I know.

Apparently my brain still has plenty of storage.

I just don't seem to have administrator access anymore.

Did I Actually Do That?

That's the part that's really changed over the last year.

I'm second-guessing myself.

A lot.

Did I pay that bill?

Let me check.

Did I answer that text?

Better look.

I know I talked to her about that appointment, but did I actually put her on my schedule?

Open the book. Check again.

Sometimes I'll be having a completely unrelated conversation and something somebody says will spark a memory.

Wait.

Did I ever answer that message?

And off I go to my phone to find out whether I actually responded.

Because apparently there are now three separate events:

1. Remembering that I need to do something.

2. Doing it entirely inside my head.

3. Actually doing the damn thing.

And my brain occasionally has trouble distinguishing between numbers two and three.

And Don't Get Me Started on Words

I'll be talking and suddenly...

Gone.

The word I want has left the building.

A word I've probably used 47,000 times.

I know what it means.

I know what I'm trying to say.

Sometimes I can practically see the damn thing.

But apparently that particular word has clocked out for the day.

Or I'll be halfway through telling somebody something and lose the entire train of thought.

Not the caboose.

The whole damn train.

And that's new too.

Apparently Perimenopause Has Entered the Chat

I've been paying much closer attention to my body lately.

Hormones.

Mood.

Sleep.

Energy.

Hair.

Skin.

All of it.

And I believe perimenopause is playing a part in what's happening with my brain too.

I'd always heard about hot flashes.

Periods changing.

Hormones going crazy.

Nobody really emphasized the part where you can stand in the middle of a sentence searching your own brain for a perfectly ordinary noun.

Or the part where the brain you've trusted your entire adult life suddenly makes you think:

Wait. Did I actually do that?

For me, it feels like when they rearrange the entire Food Lion you've been shopping at for years.

Nothing is actually gone.

The bread is still there.

The coffee is still there.

The damn mayonnaise is somewhere in the building.

It's just not where it's supposed to be.

So now you're wandering around a store you've known forever thinking:

Why am I over here?

Where did they put that?

WHO DECIDED THIS WAS BETTER?

That's kind of what my brain feels like lately.

The information is apparently still in there.

Hell, I can tell you about somebody else's vacation from three months ago.

I just can't always figure out what aisle they moved Tuesday to.

The Workarounds We Don't Realize We've Created

The more I think about all of this, the more I realize I've already been adapting.

I just didn't know that's what I was doing.

I've created little workarounds.

For example, if a client texts me and I can't answer right then—or I need to remember to put something we discussed into my schedule—I make sure I leave the message unread.

That little unread notification is my flag.

You are not finished with this. Come back.

I started doing it some time ago, and it really helps.

Most of the time.

Apparently Kristen managed to slip through quality control.

And while we're talking about text messages, I've never understood people who delete theirs.

Delete them?!

Absolutely not.

I need those.

I need to know what you asked me.

What I told you.

Whether we said Tuesday or Thursday.

Whether I actually put your appointment in the book.

Whether I answered you or merely conducted a very productive conversation with you entirely inside my own head.

At this point, my message history isn't clutter.

It's reference material.

And the more I think about it, the more I wonder how many women have done some version of this without even realizing it.

We've built systems.

Unread messages.

Notes.

Reminders.

Calendars.

Screenshots.

Things sitting by the front door because if we don't physically see them on the way out, they aren't coming with us.

We've quietly created workarounds for ourselves, and somewhere along the way they stopped feeling like workarounds.

They just became...

how we do things.

Sorry, I Mentally Responded

So maybe that's what I'm learning.

I'm checking things twice.

I'm writing more things down.

I'm opening my schedule just to make sure.

I'm checking the bank account.

I'm leaving texts unread.

And apparently I'm learning that composing a thoughtful response to your message entirely inside my own head does not, in fact, deliver it to your phone.

Who knew?

There's something unsettling about realizing that something you've always considered one of your strengths is changing.

But there's also something comforting about saying it out loud and having another woman immediately say:

“Haha, I do that all the time.”

Maybe that's why I love the conversations that happen in my chair so much.

Sometimes you say something you think is uniquely weird about yourself and another woman looks at you like:

Girl. Me too.

And suddenly you realize you're not the only one who's been quietly creating workarounds just to keep the damn train on the tracks.

So if you've ever read a text, answered it beautifully in your head, put your phone down and gone about your life completely satisfied with a conversation the other person never actually participated in...

Apparently you're one of my people too.

And if you need to respond to this later?

Just leave it unread.

Love, Bawsey