Loaded
Natural Born Cyborgs, which is one of my favorite nonfiction books from the last couple-three years, talks extensively about how much of our memory and cognitive skill we “store” in our physical environment.
Nothing proves the man’s point like moving. Nothing in this world. Seriously.
Just the numbers are enough to drive one bats. My place of work (hereinafter abbreviated MPOW) has a “G-number” that is the key to practically everything. Except the code-lock on my office door; I live in a communal office that doubles as a server closet. (Really. I do.) And then there’s my mail-stop number, my home and work phone numbers, my new library card number…
Oh, and speaking of my new library card number, I do wish the public library would pull its OPAC out from behind a card-number-enforced firewall. That’s just goofy, not to mention offputting for no good reason.
Anyway, bus numbers, bus-stop numbers, street addresses of important places, and all that jazz. My brain, she is breaking.
And then there’s the problem-solving, just one damned thing after another. I’d forgotten how much change (in the coinage sense) apartment living eats up. No problem, I said at first; our credit union is right across the street, so we’ll just go there and get quarter-rolls.
Except that the branch across the street doesn’t do cash withdrawals except via ATM. Let me say that louder: they don’t handle cash. What the heck kind of a financial institution doesn’t handle cash? Grrr.
There’s an arcade on campus that has a change machine. Said arcade is closed for renovation.
For now, I have been rescued by a coworker, whose roommate is apparently a bit compulsive about saving quarters and who was quite willing to exchange a ten-dollar bill for an envelope of jingle. Seeking a more permanent solution, before my brain overheats and melts.