I’m one of those weirdos who knows where certain things are at all times, even if it looks like I’m existing in a state of complete and utter disarray. If one of my inspirational Post-It notes is slightly askew on my desk at work, for example, I’ll know it. This is usually because I’ve deliberately covered up said Post-It to avoid humiliation when someone from IT comes to work on my computer.
Much to my horror, my house keys have been missing for about a week now. For a control freak like myself with an extremely overactive imagination, this is not a great thing. The last I can remember, prince W was holding onto them at the playground. Oh sweet Jesus! What if the same punk kid who tagged up the twirly whirly slide discovered them and is now using my CVS extracare card to earn points towards Axe Body Spray, condoms and benzoyl peroxide?
The thought of my keys gone missing turns my stomach in the same way it does when Hubby tries to sell something on Craig's List. I just don't like it. Even though Hubby maintains that the seller isn't usually the one at risk for being murdered, since the buyer is actually the one showing up with cash money in hand.
And I digress. I have several store rewards cards and my library card hooked onto my key chain, and it is causing me great distress. Hubby assures me nobody is going to walk into the Boston Public Library and say to the librarian, “Hey, if I read you the number on my library card, would you please give me my address? I can’t remember where I live. Thanks! Bye now!"
I know rationally that no one is going to do the same at Michael's, but I'm still going to obsess over it in the middle of the night, because that’s just the way I roll, man. And I know full well that after that sick bastard uses my Michaels's rewards card to get a discount on some mini clothespins and scrapbooking supplies, he’ll be coming for me. (Because I’m really, really good at ahts n’ crafts!)
I don't know; it almost feels irresponsible not to worry about it.
In her book, The Happiness Project, Gretchen Rubin talks about the contradiction of only truly appreciating certain things after they've been lost. Good health, for example, or a pair of glasses. It's not like I wake up every morning and think, I'm so happy that I know exactly where my keys are! But not knowing where they are is certainly detracting from my happiness.
We scour the apartment, to no avail. I search the same bags over and over, until I am sure I am going mad. We retrace our steps at the playground, we search the car. We look in places that a pair of house keys would surely never be, just because I feel it is the proper due diligence. Couch cushions are overturned, revealing petrified strawberries and ancient Cheerios, but no keys. We sift through laundry baskets, we open drawers; we lift up throw rugs and marvel at how badly our floor needs to be mopped, and it makes me want to throw a hissy fit. I search inside the net of bath toys suctioned to the wall of our shower, as if my keys have magically been waiting for me there the entire time. (They are not). Each time I look in a new place, I ready myself to exclaim AHA! but the big payoff never comes.
Even little William gets in on the act, shining a flashlight under the TV stand and calling, "Eeys!" through his binky.
I fear I am slowly becoming unhinged. I'm not sleeping so well. Some part of my subconscious can't let go of the image of some sinister ne’er-do-well letting himself into our home in the wee hours of the morn and drinking a cup of chai tea at my kitchen table, before going on a killing spree.
It's 3AM. Sissy's husband is a cop; in the darkness I rattle off an email telling her I lost my keys. Also, a strange guy was lurking around earlier saying someone called him to fix a chimney. Seemed awfully suspicious, if you ask me. Maybe Sissy could divulge this information to the police, you know, later.
Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, look around, look around. I have lost my keys, and they have to be found...
For the love of all that is holy, where are my keys, Saint Anthony??!! It's hopeless. They’re gone forever. How could I have let this happen? Am I really so careless? I guess I’ll just check my laptop bag for the seventy-ninth time, even though I know they’re not… HEY LOOK!
They're in my laptop bag after all, hiding inside my computer sleeve. Huh. What do you know.
“Hey babe, I found ‘em!!!! They were in my laptop bag the whole time!”
Hubby should probably want to put on a pair of black leather gloves right now and try to ring my neck in the style of Danny DeVito in Throw Mama From The Train, but instead he answers: "Of course they were."
I'm not right. (And it's not okay.) Makes me think of this sorry incident, among others.
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