Clueless in Chicago

“Clue phone:” I love Urban Dictionary’s definition for this slang expression, chiefly because it resonates in such a personal way. “An imaginary phone, whose futile hope is to alert the terminally oblivious to reality.” Granted, being terminally oblivious is probably too great a stretch for describing my relationship with the real world, but it is certainly true that––like others who spend too much time in their own heads––I also have a knack for missing the obvious, for failing to “pick up” when this metaphorical phone rings.

Let me illustrate what I mean: last week I drove straight past the pick-up window at a local Chicago Starbucks and was already on my way home before I realized that I’d left my Venti Frappuccino behind. Then, a few days ago, I heard an unremitting chirp as my husband and I walked through the neighborhood. “Wow,” I commented. “It’s the end of November and the crickets are still singing. How crazy is that?”

Phil slowed his step as he listened, and then got a weird expression on his face. “Are you  kidding?” He cocked his head as he looked over at me. “That sound is coming from your pocket. It’s the alarm on your cellphone.”

Silly me. I didn’t even remember when I had set the device’s clock to sound at that particular time—or, even worse, why.

“You’re scaring me, Mom” my thirty-three-year-old daughter declared bluntly after I’d quite blithely described these most recent gaps in my attention span. “Maybe you should get tested? You know, for some kind of cognitive decline.” There was a short moment of silence before she made her next killer point. “What does Phil say?”

I laughed at her question that implied my husband would know best. “Sweetie, you know better than anyone that none of this stuff is anything new. You remember me taking you one winter for a walk when you were five, and how I thought a red and white fire hydrant was really a little boy in a stocking cap and mittens?”

“You were livid!” Grace cackled at the memory. You were sure that the kid had been left outside with no one watching him. You made a beeline over so he didn’t wander any closer to the curb.” “Maybe,” I quipped in response, as a way of defending against her one hundred percent accurate recollection and interpretation. “Maybe you should just be grateful that being a little nuts most likely isn’t a heritable trait.”

Our conversation remained jovial, but before signing off, Grace’s voice levelled into a serious tone once again. “Okay Mom, let’s just go with what we already know. That you’re smart and that these stories definitely aren’t new—but you’re seventy now and you need to learn how to be more aware of your surroundings. Otherwise, you might have a bad fall when your mind is off fooling around someplace else. You could wind up lost in a strange part of town. Or even get mugged. You can’t afford to keep shrugging stuff off.”

Hoping to soothe Grace’s concern, I promised her I’d work to be more cognizant of my surroundings, even as I feared that I’d already said too much: Giving her so many details is just asking for trouble, I thought to myself. Do you really want her to start mailing you glossy brochures touting the merits of assisted living? 

In the days since  our exchange, however, I’ve thought more seriously about my penchant for distractibility, as well as my tendency to “misread” both visual and auditory cues. The clinical psychologist in me wondered whether these behaviors were neurologically based or more closely linked to a personality quirk. I recalled a conversation I’d recently had with a former colleague on this very topic, and her boisterous laugh now echoed in my mind. “Oh Terry, you are so ADD,” she’d insisted, ticking off on her fingers four common criteria often cited when making a diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder: “First, easily bored; side-tracked unless hyper-focused on a single task;  often forgetful; and daydreams a lot. ADD Inattentive type, for sure.”

Yet, last evening, when I’d asked my dear husband to weigh in on my situation, he shrugged. “Sweetheart, you always seem to take extra steps to do some of the simplest tasks. The way you measure out the laundry detergent in a cup—even though there’s that little drawer on top of the machine that’s designed to measure it for you. But don’t get me wrong. It’s not a bad thing.” When I looked at him, perplexed,  as if to say, “So, what’s your point?” Phil just patted my arm. “Oh, honey, I just think you’re a little bit different—that’s all. Actually I’d use the word  ‘endearing’ instead.” 

All of which now leads me to suspect that discerning why I behave as I do may be beside the point. After all, professionally, I was fortunate to be able to concentrate, laser-focused, on each of my patients, which made it possible to enjoy success as I worked in a field I loved. In a more personal and private way, I’ve also been blessed  with long-standing relationships; both with family and friends, those  who have accepted my absentmindedness. But what kinds of adaptations can a high-functioning but too often clueless baby-boomer realistically make?

I’m still searching for answers. For now, I’m vowing to crack open my copy of Alexandra Horowitz’s On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes (N.Y., Scribner, 2013)––a book I’ve been meaning to read for at least the past three years, which explores the meaning and benefits of paying attention,  as well as how we can “bring this practice deeper into our lives.”  I’m also scoping out a local Tai-Chi class that I might join, as it seems reasonable to consider that achieving better physical balance and improved concentration will lessen the odds of doing a cartwheel down the stairs at home.

What I am most looking forward to, however, is my next chat with Grace, not only because I hope to tell her about all my new plans. But additionally, I’m eager to hear her infectious laugh when I quote her beloved stepdad’s most recent assertion about my adventures in cluelessness.

“He called it endearing?” I imagine her saying with feigned horror––before dryly adding her own twist on the situation: “Phone’s ringing, Mom,” she’d say. “Please tell Phil that this time  it’s for him.”