What could you do differently?

If I were to do things differently at the grocery store, the first thing I’d do is actually listen to my wife when she gives me the list instead of pretending my brain is some kind of supercomputer with infinite RAM. Spoiler: it’s not—it’s more like an old cassette tape that gets erased every time I hear a catchy song on the radio.

You see, my wife carefully lists everything we need. I repeat it back to her like a champion, with confidence that would make memory experts jealous. But the moment I step out of the house, it’s like my brain opens a trapdoor and dumps the whole list into oblivion. By the time I’m at the grocery store, I remember one thing from the list—usually something like “toothpaste,” which isn’t even urgent. The rest? Completely replaced with useless thoughts like, “I wonder if they sell chocolate-flavored cereal for grown-ups?”

When I realize my brain’s betrayal, I do the most logical thing: I call my wife. But instead of sounding like a responsible adult, I ask, “Hey, how many onions do we need?” Cue ear-splitting yelling from her side of the phone. She’ll say something like, “Onions?! You forgot the milk, the eggs, and everything else I told you!” It’s at this point I start holding the phone two feet away from my head to avoid permanent hearing damage.

But do I give up? Never! I keep her on the phone like my personal shopping assistant, walking through the store while she directs me, yelling, “TURN LEFT! PICK THE YOGURT!” The other shoppers probably think I’m on a military mission. And yet, every time, I promise myself I’ll do better next time. Spoiler again: I don’t.

What could I do differently? I could just write down the list. Or, if that’s too modern for my ancient ways, I could at least take a photo of the list. But no, my stubbornness says, “Why do that when your unreliable brain is right here?” The answer is simple: my brain is like an unreliable GPS—always recalculating when I’m already lost.

So, what would make life easier? Giving in to the wisdom of my wife and using literally any tool other than my own fading memory. But honestly, where’s the fun in that? I’d miss out on the thrill of her yelling, the judgmental looks from shoppers, and my epic battles with my own forgetfulness. Life wouldn’t be the same without it.