Sometimes I Forget Things

Sometimes I forget a lot of things, actually. 

Things like the hammer I meant to bring up from the basement, which was the only reason I actually went down there in the first place, although by the time I came back upstairs I'd also changed into my pj's, brushed my teeth, and brought up sodas to put in the fridge. 

Or whether you list the names "Last, First" or "First Last" when writing up footnotes in Chicago Manual of Style style. 

Or that if I want to get someone's birthday card to him/her on time, I probably need to send it more than two days in advance (or, more likely this year, two weeks after).

But one of the things I've noticed that I've been forgetting often, lately, is what it feels like to enjoy a job. And, along with that, what it is I really want to do with my life. 

I keep hoping that sometime I'll be walking into the basement, realizing that the book I meant to take downstairs with me is still on the dining room table, and it will hit me. 

I try to convince myself that opening myself up to that type of serendipity is why it's okay that I'm forgetful about other things. 

In the meantime, I'm kind of just happy that I haven't been kicked in the head by a moose - although some days it sort of feels that way.