Saturday my husband and I went into a furniture store, and I noticed that the store had the same name as a fabric store I used to frequent 30 years ago when I sewed a lot more than I do now (which is to say not at all). A sturdy little brain cell marched to the front of my brain and announced, "Laura. The owner's name is Laura."
I was stunned. Could that be right? I'd talked to the woman only five or six times, ever, in what seemed a lifetime ago.
I asked. It was.
So where the heck was my brain earlier in the week when I was trying to remember the name of a neighbor I've known forever and see socially once or twice a year? My husband and I were walking past her house, and neither one of us could bring her name to mind. It was ridiculous. "Think of something else," I said. "It will come to us."
It didn't—not until we were leaving the furniture store several days later. After the "Laura" flash, my brain must have been embarrassed. "Kathy," it suddenly telegraphed. "Your neighbor's name is Kathy."
Sigh. Why can't scientists figure out a way to get our brains to prioritize information in a sensible way?
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