Remember Rotary Phones? Why I Still Know My Childhood Number
You know that feeling when you’re trying to remember something important, like your dentist’s name, and your brain decides to offer up a random phone number instead? No? Just me? Okay, well, let me tell you, it’s a trip down memory lane I never asked for. It usually starts something like this: “Hmm, was it Dr. Smith? Or was it Dr. … 555-2368?”
Yep, you read that right. For some inexplicable reason, my brain, in all its infinite wisdom, has decided that my childhood phone number, the one I haven’t dialed in over two decades, is a crucial piece of information I need readily available at all times. It’s like having a mental pop-up ad that I can’t close, forever stuck on repeat.
Why do our brains do this to us? Why, when faced with a mental storage crisis, do they choose to hold onto the periodic table song instead of, you know, where I put my keys?
Some theories suggest it’s all about emotional connections. Our brains are hardwired to prioritize information linked to strong emotions, whether it’s joy, nostalgia, or even trauma (hopefully not the case with your childhood phone number). So, maybe my brain clings to that string of digits because it reminds me of simpler times, of playing landline tag with friends, of not having a care in the world beyond finishing my homework before “Full House” came on.
Useless Trivia: The Stickier, The Better?
The funny thing is, the more useless the information, the stickier it seems to get. I once amazed (and slightly terrified) my friends by reciting the entire ingredient list of a popular brand of cookies from memory. It was a party trick born out of boredom, but it left everyone wondering if I’d secretly downloaded the entire Wikipedia database into my brain. (Spoiler alert: I hadn’t. Just the cookie section, apparently.)
And it’s not just me. I’ve met people who can tell you the capital of every country in alphabetical order, the starting lineup of their favorite sports team from 1987, or even the entire plot of “Titanic” told through interpretive dance (okay, maybe I made that last one up). But you get the point.