DATE: Tuesday, May 6, 1997                  TAG: 9705060070

SECTION: DAILY BREAK             PAGE: E8   EDITION: FINAL 

TYPE: Opinion

SOURCE: BY KRYS STEFANSKY, STAFF WRITER 

                                            LENGTH:   53 lines

THERE'S NO DANGER OF MY FORGETTING

THE OTHER DAY I opened my mailbox to find a postcard.

It was from me.

Well, from me and my dentist.

He was reminding me about my next appointment. Or I was reminding myself. Or we were reminding each other.

I tell you, the dentist is so deep into my life by now that I'm having trouble telling him from me.

He's in my wallet, he's on my calendar, he's on my answering machine and now - in my mailbox.

It started like this: Last fall I went to the dentist, and before I left, they gave me another appointment for six months down the road. I went home, marked it on the calendar on the fridge and went on about my business.

However, I may as well throw out the fridge and the calendar with it. Neither one has a job anymore.

I don't have to remember anything. Everybody else is remembering for me - the dermatologist, the hairdresser, even the chimney cleaner. In fact, it's gotten to the point that my memory is completely out of practice.

See, while I was at the dentist, they had me fill out a card. This card. The one in the mailbox. A reminder card about my appointment - which, remember, was going on my calendar. So, OK, the card is a good idea. And it should end there.

It does not.

I got in the house and saw that at the bottom of the card was a printed line - something to the effect that when you get this card, you should call somebody named Amy and tell her.

My mother raised an obedient child.

I called the number. Amy sounded surprised to hear from me.

``I'm calling,'' I said, ``because the card says to.''

``Oh,'' she said, evidently so busy sending out reminder cards that she's unable to keep up. ``Would you like to make an appointment?''

``No, it says here I already have one,'' said I. ``On the eighth.''

OK, now she's with me. And, by golly what a miracle, I was on the doctor's calendar.

Then I couldn't leave well enough alone. I wanted Amy to know I remember to pick up my laundry at the cleaners before the 30 days expires, pay bills on time, take books back to the library before they're due.

``I marked the date on my calendar six months ago when I made the appointment,'' I said to Amy.

``Good for you,'' she chirped.

No satisfaction there.

And Amy's job is not done.

``Now,'' she said, ``the night before the eighth, would you like us to call you to remind you?''

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