Another Sure Sign of Aging

I have a legendary ability to recall numbers. Series of numbers, series of digits, it doesn't matter. I remember every phone number I've ever had. I remember my father's office number, and the business has been closed since 1980. I recall both phone numbers at my best friend's childhood home. People at work know I have ridiculous numerical recall. Once, in a college psychology class we did an exercise where a series of numbers was read aloud and we were asked to recite them in reverse order. I won the competition handily. I've always been proud of this little gift.
Last night, I pulled into my neighorhood and the gate was closed. No sweat. I pulled up to the keypad and couldn't remember my gate code. It's four digits.
It dawned on my that I was in trouble when I realized I was keying in my phone number for some absurd reason. Then, absentmindedly, I put in my ATM PIN. That didn't work. I started rifling through a mental Rolodex: Windows password, e-mail password, laptop password, pascode for my voicemail. The gate code would not reveal itself.
Sitting in my car foolishly staring at the screen, I called my daughter on her cell phone. That number, I remembered. I just said, "I'm having a brain tumor and can't remember the gate code." She reminded me and I made way way through the gate safely.
For a good time call 867-5309. Rikki, Don't lose that number. Four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie. 88 piano keys. 13 stripes on the American flag. 444 days of the Iranian hostage crisis. 5280 feet in a mile. Four quarts in a gallon. I could go on and on, but who wants that? It's getting old that's got my number.

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