The wonderfully forgetful diary of life at almost 60

If I had to produce a personal journal at nearly 60, I imagine it would read less like a profound reflection on life and more like a mildly confused instruction manual written by someone who keeps misplacing their glasses which, incidentally, would be mentioned on every third page.

I can picture one entry: Woke up early. Not by choice. My body now runs on a mysterious internal alarm clock that refuses to acknowledge weekends. Lay in bed debating whether my knee pain is from ageing or from that one ambitious squat I did in 1997.

A few pages later: Spent 10 minutes looking for my phone. It was in my hand. Decided not to tell anyone. This will go to the grave with me, along with the reason I walked into the kitchen earlier. Also made a cup of tea this morning. Forgot about it. Found it later. Reheated it. Forgot about it again. I am now in a committed relationship with lukewarm beverages.

Here’s one that reads: I said “oof” while sitting down. No one warned me this would become a personality trait. Later, I opened a cupboard and forgot what I wanted from it. Stood there like a philosopher contemplating existence, except with less dignity and more questions than answers.

Ooh, this is definitely a regular entry: Had a strong opinion about something. Can’t remember what it was, but I’m not sure who won.

One day later: Noticed that I now have a “favourite burner” on the gas stove. This feels like a turning point. Not sure in which direction. But there it is.

Two weeks ago: Received a message with a new slang term. Had to Google it. Still not entirely sure what it meant, but sent a smiling emoji in response. I am now fluent in pretending.

Yesterday: Put on reading glasses to look for my reading glasses. After finding them, I cancelled plans with a friend and felt an unreasonable amount of joy. Socialising is lovely, but so is not wearing shoes.

This morning: Realised I’ve become the person who turns the volume down in the car to see better. Science cannot explain this and frankly, neither can I. Am scattered between forgetfulness and a gentle decline into comfortable oddness.

I suspect there would be more entries from here onwards. Quieter ones.

Notes about people I love. Moments that mattered. Small victories that no one else noticed.

Because perhaps that’s what a journal at nearly 60 really becomes – less about remembering everything and more about holding onto what counts. Even if you can’t quite remember where you put it.