“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
So many things seemed filled with intent
To be lost that their loss is no disaster.”
Ask me what I have done today.
Ask me, and I will not tell you about the deadlines I have met (although I have) and the books I have sold (although I did). I will not tell you about The Heat Islands, although I am leisurely reading and enjoying it.
No, I will tell you that I have lost two things, both of which are driving me batty. One set of Buffett tickets and one dive watch.
The tickets arrived in the mail shortly before the cruise, and I could swear to you I did one of three things with them: pinned them to the bulletin board in the kitchen, where I keep tickets for things I cover for The Gabber (although try as I might, couldn’t get Ken to reimburse me for these by promising him a photo… I think he’s on to me!); pinned them to the bulletin board in the office, where I keep tax receipts, pictures, and other miscellany (yes, I know it would make more sense to keep the work stuff in my office and the other stuff in the kitchen, but that doesn’t work for me. I don’t know why), or brought them to Tom’s house so -get this- I WOULDN’T LOSE THEM.
They are not on either bulletin board. Tom swears to me they aren’t there, but he looks for things like a guy, so who knows, really. But he probably would have at least remembered me handing them to him. And, of the two of us, he is not typically the one to misplace two little pieces of stiff paper that cost more than I’ll spend on clothes this year (and how happy I am that my priorities are such, before any of you who don’t know me get the idea that I deprive myself of clothes).
So I have checked high and low and in between for these little bastards today. They are not, for the record, in with my bedside reading. They are also not in with the knitting, my camera case, my video games, or in the fridge (please don’t scoff; there are reasons I check these places). I did not put them with the genealogy stuff my cousin sent me several months ago, they are not in the pocket of my leather jacket (again, don’t laugh, I found media passes to last year’s Cirque in there), and they are most definitely not in with my tampons. They are not on the piano or under it.
But they’re here, somewhere.
The dive watch is my only watch; I got it a few years ago when it was marked down enough to make it worthwhile. I love it; nothing hurts it (I’m kinda hard on things, and all I can say is whatever this watch is made of, they should make cars out of- it would minimize auto fatalities) and I never have to take it off.
Except when I’m working. My new MacBook Pro has this sensational silver case that, while it looks pretty, can’t take the metal band of the watch. To avoid scratching up one of the few things I own that cost MORE than the Buffett tickets, I take it off whenever I work. But because it’s a laptop, I work all over my house (and, again, Tom’s), and that means I take off the watch all over the place.
The watch is not in my big chair. It is not in my underwear drawer (or, more accurately, my socks and shorts drawer). It is not in my stage manager box. It is not under my dryer. And it is not in the basket where I stash Scrubfy’s paper and boxes. It is also not in my purse, my scooter, or in with my magazines.
I’m going crazy here. It’s so bad that Michele called me this afternoon and I asked her if she remembered what bag I shoved all my stuff in when we went to the beach when she was down two months ago. She did not.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.