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Brainpower loses punch as the years roll on by

Burt's Eye View

I used to have a brain. I never took advantage of it.

When my ability to think bubbled at full capacity, I squandered my gift in calculating which pizza place gave me the best deal per ounce and number of toppings, and memorizing the phone numbers of all the shops. (We didn’t have cellphones with programmable memories back then.)

But now that I’m well into my 50s and driving straight to geezerhood, I can’t even figure out which shirt goes with which pants without broad general hints from my wife (“Wear that one”).

OK, bad example. I never was good at matching my plaids and my stripes. But back then, my brain zipped along so fast that it never entertained the notion that there might be a wrong way to wear purples and oranges. My brain considered and dismissed my wardrobe in a nanosecond and whizzed right on to today’s deep dish special.

These days, I stand stupefied in my closet doorway, the last little sizzles and pops between synapses gasping out a warning that I can’t quite process.

Finally, I snap out of the daze, close the closet and head to the car.

“Sweetheart,” my wife calls out the back door, “those boxers are nice but perhaps you should pull on some pants.”

“Pants!” I hustle back inside before the neighbors send out another bulletin. “That’s why I was in the closet.”

I yank on a pair of slacks, scratch my head, and flop down in my chair.

“Aren’t you going to work today?” my wife asks.

“Work!” I jump out of the chair. “After you reminded me to put on pants, I couldn’t remember why.”

There are too many facts, figures, life experiences and hard-learned lessons crammed into every cortex nook and gray cell cranny. My brain is squeezed like a fat guy cinched into the pants he wore decades ago, gasping and unable to move. There’s too much information to sift through to find the strand I’m looking for, and I can’t bend over to get it even if I see it.

In the old days, my brain worked. I figured out my algebra homework in my head. I yawned through mazes. I didn’t bother writing anything down.

Meetings — I remembered times, names, addresses, and the prices at each of the gas stations en route. Phone numbers — all 10 digits, clipped in the cerebral filing Rolodex, ready for recall. NBA statistics — in case anyone asked, I stood ready to recite Wilt Chamberlain’s points, rebounds and assists averages for all 13 seasons he played.

Today, I rely on lists. And I haven’t marked down any player’s average in anything for 20 years. All those figures just confuse my search for the PIN to my bank card and the password to my laptop.

Every morning, I find pen and paper, and write out everything I’m supposed to do that day. That way, I only have to remember one thing all day.

For example, today’s agenda is… the things I’ve got on the list are…

Nuts. Where did I put that stupid list?

Anyway, it’s all written down so I’ll know exactly what to do. Once I find the list. Maybe I stuffed it in my pocket. Let me check my pants… Uh-oh.

I miss my brain.

— Write Burt’s brain at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.

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