I wish someone had told me how terrible your memory gets in the midlife years

Yesterday, I was at the gym.

I’d finished my exercise class, and went to the lockers to collect my stuff. 

The key turned, I took out my puffer jacket, turned away for one second to blow my nose, then went to get the remainder of my bumph.

But I couldn’t, because I’d totally forgotten the number of the locker. I couldn’t even recall its approximate location.

I was too embarrassed to try every single door, since there was a youngster near me, and I thought she might think I was having a senior moment or fishing for £1 coins.

I found my stuff in the end, once she’d left, but this isn’t the first time this has happened.

They don’t tell you about midlife memory lapse. I was once deluded. I thought that wisdom and knowledge would accumulate with time. That my mind was some sort of receptacle for endless terabytes of data.

However, it’s not that simple.

For instance, I was The Scotsman’s restaurant reviewer for 17 years. 

I learnt a lot over that time, but it’s almost all gone, like a sunken souffle. I find myself once again Googling whether pannacotta is one word or two. 

What’s a ballotine again, and what the heck is romesco sauce or gnudi? They’re all items I’ve eaten many times before. In case you’re wondering, the latter are gnocchi-like dumplings and have nothing to do with being gnaked. And, sorry, it’s actually panna cotta.

Panna cotta, or is it pannacotta | Vitaliy - stock.adobe.com

Also, if someone asks me to recommend somewhere to eat, I go blank. The information I want is like a rubber duck bobbing down a river in spate, and I’m unable to grab it with my hook. 

In reality, it seems that everything you’ve learnt starts falling out of your head somewhere in your mid to late 40s. The brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, and one’s cranium capabilities put the ‘nap’ in synapses. 

I’m blaming my lapse in brain power on the perimenopause, which causes brain fog, thanks to drops in estrogen levels. 

I’m not going to bother going to my GP about it. I’ve already tried to get them to prescribe me HRT, but I got fobbed off,  so I’m allowing the atrophy to set in. 

Mind you, my other half seems to have problems with recall and retention, too. I feel that this might be more of a listening problem, though. The perimanopause is real. 

It does seem like one or both of us is always desperately looking for a synonym, or trying to remember the name of somewhere we went on holiday once.

I was attempting to conjure up a couple of London recommendations for a friend the other day.

It’s a house in Spitalfields, Soho or Shoreditch - one of the ‘s’ areas, anyway - and the other place is a museum full of brilliant stuff. You should go, I said, and she looked confused. 

That night, as I lay my head on my memory foam (ironic) pillow, I remembered. Denis Severs’ House and the Sir John Soane’s Museum. It took about five hours for my brain to locate that information, and it waits until a completely pointless moment. It sometimes feels like a horror film cliche, when the protagonist can’t start the car up, and the monster is clawing at the window.

I remember when my parents were this age, and they always got my sister’s and my name confused, sometimes adding the cat or the gerbils to the mix.

Now, my niece has been a vegetarian for nearly five years and I still forget. 

I always mention that ham and pineapple pizza - I know, controversial - is her favourite, until she reminds me, in a jaded fashion, that she doesn’t eat meat. 

Oops, it’s never going to sink in, is it, I laugh. But, no, she’ll be 40 and I’ll be inviting her over for rare roast beef. 

Honestly, my mum is 88 and she has a better memory than me. 

There’s also the fact that, as a journalist, you meet a lot of people at events.

I have trained my other half to say, “Hi, I’m Rolf”, to whoever we meet, because I don’t remember anyone’s name, so I can’t introduce him. I know the faces, but can’t connect them to a word. 

I especially struggle with names that begin with K. There are too many: Karen, Kirsty, Kristina, Kevin, Kenneth, they just become interchangeable. The same with S and C. Also, it’s difficult with young people, because they’re all so gorgeous. It’s like they have a soft focus filter switched on. At least, as we get older, our faces become more distinctive, with identifying wrinkles and wattles. 

Then there’s the classic going-into-rooms-and-forgetting-why-you’re-there.

I try not to worry about that too much. If it was that important, I’d know, wouldn’t I? 

I really hope I don’t end up leaving the hob on, and I’m never certain if I’ve switched off my straighteners. Oh well, if the place burns down, c’est la vie.

The one good thing about my weird memory lapses, is that I worry less.

I tend towards negative rumination. I will always find something to fret about, then roll it over in my head, examining it, like a bit of sea glass, until I start to feel sick with stress.

These days, a bad thought pops into my head, and has evaporated ten minutes later.

I’ll soon forget my locker trauma, but maybe I’ll write its number down next time.