Runneth Over

I'm a little teapot, short and stout. When I get all steamed up, tip me over and pour me out. This is how I am currently addressing the mild concerns I am having about my memory. It's nothing that I can't deal with or excuse via the number of things that I keep in my head on any given day, but as someone who has always taken pride in his ability to recall, there has been a little movement at the epicenter.
I am used to being presented with kids showing up at school, years after being promoted, who will invariably ask, "Do you remember me?" This is where I make a remembering face and give them a pause just long enough to get them to gush with exasperation, "Deanna. Ms. Mapp's class?" And of course at this point I start to put the pieces together and make the necessary connections to the four foot version of the young person standing in front of me. If the conversation goes on long enough, I tend to find my mental sea legs and right myself enough to make some clever association that gives me karma points to move ahead.
Here's the deal, though: Each year delivers more little faces for me to remember. More names to file away for a later that comes when I least expect it. That suggests that I should start expecting later, since it is as inevitable as "Do you remember me?"
I don't feel that my hard disk is full, exactly, but it is in need of defragging. This is the same space that I use to look up the band that played "A Town Called Malice." It is the same cerebrum that keeps track of things like the function of the part of the brain that is used to hold on to bits of information like that. I worry about the bucket of my memory becoming so full that bits of important information that I might need like the combination to my bike lock might slop over the edge. I can solve that issue by switching to a lock with a key, but since it took me a moment to recollect that I have already done this, you might understand my predicament.
Or not. Since I found the number to my checking account rolling around my brain a few mornings ago, I guess I don't need to worry that much: 148997. Of course this is the checking account I had back in Boulder when I was in high school, and it has been closed for a quarter of a century. there is some debate about just how important that bit of information turns out to be. Would I be better off deleting that file and replacing it with the names and faces of all my former students? Maybe, but I don't think it's that kind of machine.
It's a little teapot.