When my wife called to remind me about letting our dog out at noon, I instinctively retrieved a Post-It from the desk drawer and scrawled “Dog at noon,” then stuck it to the computer monitor.
This required shuffling a series of other yellow Post-Its into order of importance, with things like “Call about hair cut,” “Go to dry cleaners” and “Clean out van” written on them.
That one, of course, was moved to the very end of the line.
Sadly, they’re all things I should be able to remember on my own and usually do; like when I’m staring into the closet for a pair of pants to wear. Later, I got into the van and was gently reminded by a shocking-yellow piece of paper to “get gas.”
It was while sitting at the pump a short time later that the notion of Post-It dependency hit me.
In the beginning, I was only an occasional user, jotting down out-of-the-ordinary reminders. You know, things like a doctor’s appointment, or that it was time to change the oil.
Then, “Change cat box” and “Take out trash” began appearing on the bathroom mirror, or stuck to the alarm clock — painfully obvious things that were reminders in and of themselves.
My life was becoming sort of a dot-to-dot, or in this instance note-to-nore, existence, moving from one reminder to the next. What was next?
“Don’t drink soda with Alka-Seltzer?”
So, I decided enough was enough. It was time to end the addiction. For those of you who followed my attempt to give up coffee, you probably know where this is going. Still, I reached into my shirt pocket, snatched my last, still-cellophaned package of pads and tossed them out the window and into the trash.
This was my moment, something I would long remember without a scrap of yellow paper conveniently laced with “stick-um.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the gas attendant said, interrupting my moment of triumph. “You got another gas card? This one’s expired.”
Confused, I thumbed through my wallet as the attendant handed me a yellow slip of paper. “By the way, this fell off the back of your card.”
I took it from him and stared at my handwritten reminder:
“Call about gas card.”
After handing the attendant my cash, I reluctantly stepped from the truck and, with no small amount of humiliation, dug the Post-Its back out of the trash, opened it and made myself a note.
“Get more Post-Its.”
Ned is a syndicated columnist with News Media Corporation. Write to him at nedhickson@ icloud.com