I remember everything.

When friends and family can’t recall details of something that happened 30 years ago, they ask me.

This is the blessing part.

But with a really good memory, you can’t pick and choose the things you actually want to remember and the things you don’t.

This means that every little embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me often bubbles up to the surface of my mind and makes me feel like I’m the same awkward, doofy, horrifying person I was then.

And really, I am the same awkward, doofy, horrifying person I was then, I just know how to hide her better. Sometimes I’m not even that great at hiding her but whatevs.

A great part about reaching midlife is that – like I’ve always heard – you really do not care anymore.

In fact, being 46 years old with a memory that’s 2 legit 2 quit, has its benefits.

Like when my kids are upset about something awkward that happened to them, I’m able to rifle through my humiliating memories brain files and compare war stories with them.

Then, instead of it being an inward-focused shame, it’s turned into a relatable event we can all laugh about. Usually, they end up laughing more at ME and never let it go, but that’s fine.

For instance (this is admittedly a light one) my son wore a t-shirt to school with a phrase on it. A teacher read it out loud and told him he liked it. He never wore the shirt again because he didn’t like the attention drawn to him. He said it was SO EMBARRASSING.

It reminded me of when I was in 3rd grade and paper painter’s caps were all the rage. If you were really cool, you had one with a piece of material that hung down from the back of it like a curtain. I guess it was to protect your neck from sunburn. This was redundant for me because I already had a bitchin’ mullet for that.

If you were really, really, cool you went to the Busy Bee mall to buy your painter’s cap and the vendor would draw on the front of it. I asked for a rainbow and my name in bubble letters.

I wore the hat to church one Saturday night (thank the Lord my parents didn’t force us to go on Sunday mornings, plus we got Burger King afterward, so it wasn’t sooo bad).

We were finally in the home stretch and it was time for communion. I walked up to the priest, hands clasped one under the other, my painter’s cap at his eye level.

As he placed the Body of Christ in my sweaty little palm he said, “Peace be with you … TIFFANY”.

I turned every shade of red, walked back to the pew in horror, and never wore that hat again.

I don’t know, maybe some kids would’ve liked the attention. I did not. I’m not even sure if I uttered an “Amen” in response or if I just trudged away stunned, barely even able to choke down the communion wafer because I was now sick to my stomach.

Yes, this was quite a reaction, I know, but it was the way he said it that was so bad. It was like, peace be with you… Tifffannnnyyy. I wish my blog had audio so you could get the full effect.

Anyway, I get why my son never wore that shirt again.

I’ll stop now. You get the idea. If I wrote every embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me, this would be an entire book. Hmmm… maybe not a bad idea 🤔