Life is very complicated, if you pay attention. But if, like me, you have the attention span of, say, a squirrel – a squirrel that may have gotten a jolt or two while playing on high-voltage power lines – it can get even more complicated.

Take cooking, for instance. If I had a nickel for every pot I’ve put on the stove and then forgotten, and in that way smoked up the entire house and ruined a meal, I could probably hire a cook.

Even making coffee in the morning is a challenge. I measure each scoop carefully, counting as I drop it into the basket. Until I get distracted. Then I’m stuck. Am I on the third scoop or the fourth? Three scoops and the coffee will be too weak, four and it will be too strong. I dump it all back into the coffee can and start over. And over, and over …

Then, there’s the car. When my children were all younger – before half of them got wheels of their own – and we were going somewhere together, I would frequently put my hand on the front doorknob, turn around and shriek, “Wait, where did I put my keys?”

My children were conditioned to fly into action like a S.W.A.T. team, swarming loudly over the house turning over cushions, throwing papers off the kitchen counter and tossing things out of the trash. When someone eventually pointed that I’d had the keys in my hand the whole time, and the fact had simply slipped my mind, they’d file out to the car grumbling mutinously, throwing dark looks over their shoulders.

Chastened, I would try to lighten things up with a few jokes and could usually stay focused long enough to get us halfway to wherever we were headed. Then, my attention would wander and settle on something light-years away. “Quick,” I would shout to the still-smoldering group of kids in the back seat, “Where were we going and have I missed the turn?” No wonder they were so anxious to drive.

Now, I’m usually alone in the car. I keep up with my keys a bit better, but it takes me at least three tries to get out of the house.

I suspect the construction crew building the new house across the street from mine starts each morning with a pool, placing bets on the number of times I’ll dash out the door, hop in the car, drive to the corner, turn around and dash back into the house.

A short attention span is a dangerous thing when it comes to getting dressed in the morning. I play a game of fashion roulette.

Somewhere between picking out an outfit and getting dressed, I fade. My mind is on other things, or nothing at all, so occasionally zippers are left unzipped. Or, when I am really distracted, entire articles of clothing are missed.

I’ve learned – the hard way – to take one more look in the mirror before I head out. I’ve also learned to avoid button-fly jeans, too-sheer fabrics and anything that might generate static cling. Even the fact that I don’t have a personal skirt-tucked-into-the-pantyhose story – yet – terrifies me, and hangs over me like the sword of Damocles.

The inability to hold a thought for more than a few seconds makes life interesting. And, a little scary. It can lead to a lifetime of embarrassing moments.

The good news is that when you’re easily distracted, like me, you don’t dwell on those embarrassing gaffes. Well, not for long anyway.

The bad news is that I, on occasion, wear pantyhose.