BY JOELLEN COLLINS
Most of us have experienced odd bits of forgetting names or walking into a room and not remembering why you headed that way. As one grows older, these kinds of forgetfulness are often more prevalent and disturbing than ever.
I am reminded when I blank out on names, dates, titles of books or movies that I have always been thought of as not paying attention to these words when first heard, possibly not repeating them as soon as spoken.
I especially hate this because I think of myself as someone who cares about others. I am a people person. Raised in a very loving adoptive family in big cities and with numerous loving relatives, I always enjoyed the company of others and was ashamed of myself when I couldn’t call up a friend’s name in an introduction. My mother’s nickname for me was “the absent-minded professor.”
I have continued to have dreams about examples of this flaw. At UCLA I took a history class with a noted professor who often walked from his office for our 9 a.m. session in his fluffy slippers. We would roll our eyes at the image, but we still respected him as the brilliant scholar he was.
For all of my teaching years I have had early-term nightmares that I had to hide behind the door when the bell rang for first period in order to change out of my p.j.s or bathrobe in time to greet students. One day, in East L.A., my early-morning lit-class students kept whispering and giggling. On her way out, one of my brave girls told me that I had put my dress on backwards. It was a loose, simple dress, a “shift,” but I still should have noticed that the hip pockets adorned my backside instead of my front.
I’m afraid that unhappy part of my communications has always been lying semi-dormant, ready to embarrass me. A typical “JoEllen” situation I recall is being with two young daughters at Disneyland. In the late afternoon a thunderstorm interrupted our progress to the next attraction. I stopped, aghast that I had forgotten my umbrella. I told the girls I was upset that they were getting wet, but if we hurried to a nearby building, we would not be soaked. My youngest pulled on my coat and said, “But Mommy, you already have the umbrella up.” Yep, we three were already sheltered by the protection of my bright yellow bumbershoot.
It has gotten worse. I am currently in Newport Beach to share a celebratory dinner honoring a mutual friend. I had only met a couple of the guests, so I wrote their names down, to recall them accurately. The hosts’ first name initials were “D” and “G,” so I created a mental reminder, thinking of my brother, Doug Gifford. Later, when I voiced my congratulations, I said, “Aren’t we lucky to know Diane and George?” Not their names, of course.
I now refer to myself as the “absent-minded professor EMERITUS!”
