It seems that not a month goes by wherein some study or another reveals alarming statistics proving that people lose their memories as they age. (I wouldn't be surprised if most of these studies are government funded.) In fact, I read about such a report just last week. Apparently by the time we are 27, we begin to lose the ability to store specific details for long periods of time. This doesn't seem too horrible. Maybe you've forgotten the name of your kindergarten teacher? Or perhaps you are unable to remember quadratic equations. Let's face it, you really weren't planning to use the stuff from algebra, were you?

Fast forward ten years and you are now having trouble remembering more recent events. Sadly, I realize I am falling into this category. Here's a conversation I had with some co-workers yesterday:

Me: So I saw a movie this weekend. It was the best movie I've seen all year!

Co-worker #1: Oh, yeah? Which one?

Me: Huh. It's on the tip of my tongue. You know, it's about the thing with the guy in the place.

Co-worker # 2: Well, who starred in it?

Me (wracking my brain): Wait. It'll come to me. It's the guy with the crazy hair and big eyebrows? He has an accent?

According to the report, by the time you're 47, you can't retain your kids' names. ("Come here, Johnny. I mean, Joey. I mean, Janie.") And by the time you're 57, you might as well just stay home because you won't remember what you did when you went out anyway.

This is all considered "normal." So is it normal to be on the 2 train, hear your name called, and not be able to place the person if your life depended upon it? About two stops from work, a woman makes a beeline for me, skirting a subway preacher and a strolling mariachi band.

"Hi," says Blonde Woman. "You're getting to work early today."

"Uh, yes? Uh-huh." This could be some kind of rouse for money, so I am using Standard Subway Tactic #1: no eye-contact.

"Thanks for all your help on the Schneider project. It was a lifesaver."

Abort tactic #1. Abort. I look at her. Not even a glimmer of recognition. I ratchet up to Standard Subway Tactic #8: vaguely worded answers. "Don't mention it."

"Are you kidding? After 10 years at this place," she winks and elbows me, "I know if we don't give each other encouragement, who will? Anyway, how's your dog doing?"

Not if someone told me that I would win five million dollars could I simply utter this woman's name. I'm now breaking out in a bit of a cold sweat. How is it possible to draw a complete blank? The subway only makes this situation worse — there is no escape, no polite way to excuse myself. No, oh-look-at-the-time!

Is there something wrong with me? In the spirit of hypochondria, as soon as I got to the office, I did a quick search on WebMD. I do not recommend this for the inexperienced. You will learn one of two things: either there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, or you are dying. In this case, I may have an affliction called prosopagnosia, an inability to recognize faces, something millions of people might have but not know it. Or it's entirely possible that this is a direct result of all the brain cells I decimated before waking up in my dorm room and uttering the phrase "I will never ever touch vodka again."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do something, but I forgot what it was.

Jacquelin Cangro