Saturday morning. Clear head. No booze or ciggies making foggy fuzzy edges around all the bubble thoughts in my head. Just a clear crisp morning with a full 8 hours of sleep and a proper morning coffee intake.
I get out of my car, lock the doors, and approach my building. I step up onto the curb and stand over the keypad to clear the doors. Only I can’t remember the passcode. It’s just gone. Gone. I guess at numbers, trying to act casual as if I can trick my brain into just instinctively acting out the code. Just let my fingers remember how to walk across it, and feel it’s way….
They don’t remember either.
I walk back to my car, open the door, and sit down inside the car, hoping to ‘do over’. Back out of the car, lock the doors, walking over the curb and up to the keypad, and…still gone.
I try 2 other entrances to my building, only my memory likes those none the better.

I call the boyfriend with 2 rings, and then decide that this is just way too crazy to admit to him. Although I’m certain it wouldn’t surprise him (like how he handled that locking his keys in his car incident so gallantly), I still think that certain aspects of my lunacy would cause concern. I hang up quickly, and decide to dial up my brother. He used the code when he came over once three months ago, and has a knack for numbers.
‘It’s got a 7 in it I say. And a two 9s’ I say.
Are you sure? He says. I think it starts with a 1.

The good news is, I figured it out. The good news also being that my bubba says it’s not the forgetting that I should be scared of. I should really only fear NOT REMEMBERING that I don’t remember.