A woman messaged me on Facebook a few years ago.
She was so excited.
"Tracy! We went to elementary school together!"
She remembered my name.
My face.
Our teacher.
The classroom.
Specific memories.
Meanwhile...
I was over here squinting at her profile picture like I was trying to solve a murder mystery.
Nothing.
Not her face.
Not her name.
Not even a tiny flicker of recognition.
Honestly...
I don't remember most of third grade.
I'm pretty sure I attended.
Beyond that...
The details get fuzzy.
Now...
Before you think my memory is completely hopeless...
Allow me to present Exhibit A.
"She's got a smile that it seems to me..."
Don't worry.
I won't keep going.
Mainly because I don't want to get sued.
But trust me...
I absolutely could.
Every word.
Every guitar break.
Every dramatic pause.
Like it's been permanently engraved into my DNA.
How is this possible?
How does my brain delete Susan from Mrs. Henderson's third-grade class...
...while preserving every lyric from a song I first heard three decades ago?
Excellent question.
I'd also like an answer.
(By the way, I made those names up because I absolutely don’t remember either one…)
My brain is less like a filing cabinet...
And more like one of those bargain bins at a flea market.
Useful information?
Good luck finding it.
Random movie quotes?
We've got plenty.
Commercial jingles from the '90s?
Whole aisle.
The phone number from the pizza place my family ordered from in 1997?
Still available.
The name of the woman who introduced herself to me five minutes ago?
Absolutely gone.
People sometimes take it personally.
"You don't remember me?"
I wish I had a better answer.
I really do.
Because if my brain worked the way I wanted it to...
I'd remember birthdays.
Names.
Faces.
Where I parked.
Why I walked into the kitchen.
Instead...
It has chosen to preserve deeply important information like every word to songs I haven't intentionally listened to in years.
Priorities.
The funniest part?
Music doesn't even ask permission.
I'll hear the first three notes of a song...
And suddenly I'm singing verse two without realizing it.
Meanwhile...
Someone introduces themselves.
Five seconds later...
I'm mentally debating whether it's Karen.
Or Sharon.
Or Darren.
Was there a Darren?
I honestly think my brain has a very strange definition of "important."
Lyrics?
Vital.
Movie lines?
Critical.
The fact that my husband asked me to grab paper towels on the way home?
Apparently optional.
It's almost impressive.
I'll be standing in the grocery store wondering why I came...
While simultaneously remembering every word to a song released before some of my readers were born.
Explain that.
Science can't.
I've stopped fighting it.
My brain clearly enjoys collecting songs.
Not because they're practical.
Because they're emotional.
Every one of them reminds me of a season.
A road trip.
A person.
A summer.
A heartbreak.
A dream.
Music isn't just information.
It's memory with a soundtrack.
That woman from elementary school deserved better than a blank stare.
She deserved someone who remembered sharing crayons and recess.
Instead...
She got a woman who couldn't remember her face...
But could probably still tell you every word to "Welcome to the Jungle."
Life is weird.
Brains are weirder.
These days...
I've learned not to measure my heart by my memory.
Just because I don't remember someone...
Doesn't mean they weren't important.
It just means my brain has a filing system that appears to have been designed by raccoons.
Very enthusiastic raccoons.
But raccoons nonetheless.
Although...
If that woman had opened our conversation with,
"Where do we go now?"
There's a decent chance I'd have answered...
"Where do we gooooo?"
Without missing a beat.
Memory is funny like that.
Apparently Axl Rose rented permanent office space in my brain.
The rest of third grade never stood a chance.
