Lord I hate that head rush.

Last night I’m dead to the world and I leap off the mattress and hit the ground stumbling. I forgot to put my trash can out at the curb… again. The trash dudes come early around here so I have to get on it.

I grab what I hope is a pair of socks from the top of my hamper and feel around for pants. Wait. Is that right? If I’m grabbing a “pair” of something plural, shouldn’t it be, “what I hope are a pair of socks.”? You wouldn’t say, “These is a pair of socks.” No. It’s are. Sorry. Sometimes I have a word meltdown. That never happened in my 20s. And I slept like a rock then, too. Okay, back to our story.

It’s 4AM as I awkwardly hop around trying to put some jeans on… backwards…. oops turn these around… ha ha ha so funny… wow my mind is random. Where are my sneakers? Sandals are faster... here’s one…. one sandal? Shouldn’t they be together? Where are my pair of sandals? Wait. Where ARE my pair? That’s not right. I’m so screwed. Is it cold out? Probably. Is the recycling already in a see-through garbage bag? You know they won’t take it it’s not! Did I scrape the leftover salmon into the kitchen can because if I did it’ll smell to the high heavens by noon… got to get that on the trash truck this week… oh Lord I can’t miss a week... everything will pile up!... WHY IS THIS FLEECE PULLOVER SO UNCOMFORTABLE? Dang, it’s on backwards.

All of that happens in 30 seconds.

I manage to get the fishy kitchen trash and the big garbage-can-on-wheels to the curb and feel relieved and a smidge proud. My home is in order. Task accomplished. I am one with myself.

I won’t realize until later that day, when the can is still sitting there full, it’s not trash day. I’m a day off.

So I lost sleep over my own neurosis.

This happens a lot lately. Somewhere between my 40th birthday and now (I’m 46) my sleeping patterns have turned into something more like my eating habits: I get a little bit here and there. Try to get a bigger chunk at least once a day.

And my memory is shot to hell. What day is it? Trash day. Maybe.

I can’t tell you how many times a week I cuss under my breath because I’ve forgotten something I was supposed to do. I think I need an assistant.

There should be a 12-step support group for 40-somethings. “Hi, I’m Mike, and I’m 46.” (Everyone) “Hi, Mark!” They already forgot what I said.

I had to buy a “smart” phone so it could remind me to do everything I need to get done. But unfortunately, the smart phone needs a thoughtful human to enter the data on the right days. There are nights when I go to bed, set my phone alarm to wake up by and the darn thing never goes off… until tomorrow morning. Maybe the support group I need deals with knowing what day of the week it is. “Hi, I’m Mike, and I think it’s Tuesday.” (Everyone) “Hi, Tuesday!”

On the up side, life in my 40s is more of an adventure… and by that I mean crapshoot. I believe today really is Tuesday and therefore I am writing my Tuesday Travel Journal, but who knows?

Tuesday is journal day. Wednesday is Trash day. Thursday is milk delivery day. When I’m off a day I get 50 e-mails asking where my journal is, my house reeks to the high heavens and I can’t eat one of my favorite meals on earth, cereal. I have my milkman on speed dial. When I call him he says, “Hi Mike. Forgot to order again?”

Well, so far so good this week. I’m going to send this journal in and have a bowl of Lucky Charms.

Oh, before I forget, if it really is Tuesday we’re airing a Carolina Traveler show tonight at 8 PM. See you then,

Mike

Mike Redding