I have a photographic memory. Digital even, master of quick and long-term recall. I was an ace working in retail, stunning return customers with Rain Man-knowledge of exactly what they’d purchased prior. I've stored countless obscure childhood details and always have an, “Oh my God! I’d forgotten about that!” tale to share at family gatherings or with old friends.
I’m constantly writing in my head, mostly blog posts. While spooning Grape-Nuts into vanilla yogurt and strawberries this morning (yesterday was coffee, banana and cinnamon raisin bagel with the inside scooped out), I was spinning and crafting words.
Oddly they’re gone, vamoosed, and despite best efforts I can't retrieve the words from cranial filing. I remember enough to know what they weren't about – sex or firemen or layoffs or belly fat. Worse yet, I'm aware it was the kind of writing that filters in magically, light beam flowing in through the head and out through the hands. The kind of prose that transforms and transfixes, so good you can smell it. But now. The words. They do not come. So instead, I resort to the obvious, the easy and the expected.
Grab the Purell®.
Haven’t had sex (in any dual and participatory form or fashion) in six weeks. Soon I may be able to define it in months. There is, however, a new friend, one of unique and special circumstance, creating a conundrum of immediate need versus long-term want.
Recently joined the free online dating service plentyoffish.com and damn if the site isn’t filthy with firemen. Good call, choosing a thumbnail image hinting at that particular profession – the yellow Stay Puft Marshmallow Man puffy pants, standing in front of a fire truck. Goodness they’re young, most looking for (and will no doubt hook and ladder) “petite blondes”; I assume that’s the preferred word since “athletic” can mean small breasted. I’m often stalled when prompted to select an age range. Most say I don’t look my 43, and I agree hands down I don’t feel or act it (whatever that entails). So I tend to lean younger, less "cougar", more "minx." However, given past forays into online matching brought a plethora of grand-daddios to my e-mail inbox, singling out singles by age is a necessary evil.
Alas, the literary beauty that could have been.