BoomerGirl Diary

I’m becoming more forgetful these days.

I’ve lost my keys a couple times recently, often can’t locate my cell phone and last month a cashier chased after me when I left a store without taking the pants I had just purchased.

But never before have I experienced the panic that I had the other day.

I forgot to report to jury duty.

That realization 10 days after the fact enveloped my body while sitting in a staff meeting at work. I got a numb feeling and I think my eyes popped out of their sockets like a character in a Tex Avery cartoon.

I started to sweat and I had visions of a burly sheriff’s deputy showing up at work to arrest me. Some people fear snakes or spiders; I have a phobia about jail that’s only been compounded by multiple viewings of HBO’s prison drama “Oz.”

I had to try to calm myself until the interminable meeting ended. So I thought about how I could prepare for that fateful call to the county district court clerk’s office.

Catholic guilt passed over me like waves of nausea. What would be my punishment for missing this important civic duty? Was there a warrant out for my arrest? Would I start to shake and get shifty eyes if I passed a police car, the officer inside surely knowing that I was a fugitive?

I’ve never had a brush with the law. The closest I’ve come to testing authority was when I was caught mooning the girls gym class on my last day of high school. (My punishment: detention on Graduation Day. The assistant principal was shocked that I showed up for confinement and promptly sent me home.)

I thought back on my previous two stints of jury duty, a job, until now apparently, I took very seriously. The first was a three-week civil trial. When my fellow jurors and I retreated to deliberate after closing arguments, I was unanimously selected jury foreman.

Six or seven years later, I was selected for another jury. When the case was settled just minutes before trial, I was disappointed.

But here I was, 10 days after having another chance to serve, and I totally flaked.

Was I losing my memory? Was I teetering on anarchy?

When the meeting ended I rushed to my desk to call the court clerk. As I dialed the numbers I thought about what I would say. “Don’t give a story, just tell the truth,” I reasoned. “No one can fault you for saying, ‘I forgot.’” How many times have I allowed my sons to rationalize away their responsibilities by using those two simple words? At least 100 times, each.

The phone was ringing.

“Clerk’s office, this is Autumn,” came the answer.

What a nice name. Deep breath.

“Hi Autumn,” I said, clearing my throat. “This is Dennis Anderson. I was supposed to show up for jury duty on Sept. 4, but I forgot. I’m sincerely sorry.” I felt like I was in kindergarten telling the teacher I wet myself.

“Let me see,” Autumn said, papers shuffling and phones ringing in the background. “I’m just out of it today … what’s your first name again?”

“I know what you are saying. I was out of it on Sept. 4,” I quipped. She chuckled. It was the first time I could relax in nearly an hour.

“Sept. 4, right?” Autumn asked. I agreed. “Looks like they didn’t call your group.”

I could have kissed her. Instead, I offered to show up for the next jury call.

No need, she said, adding that I was clear for another year.

I guess if you’re forgetful, it’s at least good to be honest.