The more birthdays I have in my rear-view mirror, the more concerned I get about turning into one of those doddering old men who shuffles around in a perpetual state of confusion.

I already forget a lot of shit, or just don’t pay attention. It can only get worse.

There was plenty of time to reflect on my forgetfulness after I spotted an unread newspaper while on my way to work a few days ago. I assume the paper was unread because it was still rolled up snugly in its protective condom.

The sheathed newspaper was traveling westbound through Orlando on I-4 around Princeton Street when I made visual contact. It was hurtling toward its destination — on the trunk lid of a Toyota Corolla. This was a great discovery because it gave me a lot to think about during my 50-minute commute:

• Did the driver pick up the newspaper off her driveway and set it down on the trunk lid while loading the car or running back inside for something?
• If so, what did she go back inside for? Possibly her lunch, or the book of crossword puzzles she works during her break at the insurance company.
• Maybe the paper carrier accidently deposited that day’s collection of dated news and 12-hour-old scores in the front yard instead of the driveway. And then a kind neighbor walking his golden retriever deftly sidestepped the sprinkler to snatch the newspaper from the wet grass. The back of the car probably seemed like a sensible place to put the paper.

My speculation ended abruptly when I connected the dots and started thinking about how many times I’ve forgotten about something on the outside of a vehicle after setting it down for just a sec:

A Coke in a to-go cup. Pretty common, I suppose. So I know I’m not alone with this one. I remembered it as soon as I heard something sliding across the roof. That was right before I glanced in the mirror and watched 16-ounces of ice, high-fructose corn syrup and caramel color spread across the rear window, followed by a cartwheeling cup.

Packet of papers from the Orlando Science Center. It was a few years ago in January. I know it was January because that’s when we always renew our family membership. Among other things, the envelope contained four guest passes for friends and some IMAX CineDome passes. The envelope lifted off like a kite when I pulled out of the parking garage and onto … oddly enough … Princeton Street.

Garmin handheld GPS. We were on our way to a cabin in North Carolina for a week of hiking and canoeing, and I was excited about heading into the great outdoors with my first GPS. Everyone and everything was loaded in the van. I put the GPS on the roof next to the luggage rack while I stood outside the cockpit and checked my pockets to make sure I had my wallet, keys, phone and sunglasses. Satisfied that I was good to go, I climbed in and took off.

I planned on stopping two minutes from home at CVS for an extra pack of AA batteries. Halfway there I had a really bad feeling about my new toy that had been delivered by the UPS man less than 24 hours earlier. I patted my front pockets to see if the GPS was there. Then I checked the console and drink holders. Damn!

I pulled into CVS and decided to go through the motions of buying the batteries. Although it would be a moot point if the Garmin was already roadkill. As I stepped out of the van, I reached up to the luggage rack — and there was the GPS. My lucky day.

Samsung Blackjack. This is the one my kids still give me a hard time about. We were on our way somewhere. Probably the science center. I pulled out of our neighborhood and got up to about 35 mph when I heard an odd scraping sound on the roof. Once again, the mirror gave me a great view of the carnage as my phone launched off the back of the car.

I watched it bounce down the turn lane. The battery cover went one way, the battery dislodged and went the opposite direction, and the phone itself skidded to a stop 20 or 30 feet away. Much to my surprise, the phone actually worked after I collected and reassembled the pieces. Props to Samsung for making a tough device. The phone’s performance sucked — but it sure could take a hit.

I’m pretty sure this list should be longer. But I’ve forgotten about the other incidents.

I’ve lived in Florida long enough to know it’s not worth acting on my anger when I get pissed off at another driver.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or the bugs. Or the frustration of never striking it rich in the Lotto. But some people don’t take constructive criticism very well when they’re behind the wheel. And sometimes they respond by taking target practice on the rear window of the constructive criticizer.