ROBIN WRITES: Losing it
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I misplace things on a regular basis. You’d think it would bring me peace to know I’m not the only one: According to The New York Times, the average person loses nine items a day.
I’m not that bad.
But when I lose something, it’s traumatic for me. I become a raving maniac, hinging the happiness of the rest of my day (life) on finding them.
I can be plodding around my house, calm as you please, considering my itinerary for the morning. Maybe I’ll run to the store for a rotisserie chicken for supper. My library books are overdue; better get those back. Do I need toothpaste?
I change from sweats into jeans, convinced that makes me presentable, head toward the kitchen and…
my keys are not on the counter where I thought I tossed them. I feel a rush of dread laced with adrenaline and I begin to panic.
Of course, I assume John will have seen my keys. Or moved them. He is the neatnik of the family, and is always straightening, trying to make order of chaos.
“Do you know where my keys are??” I yell my question to the open air, assuming he is right there, interested in my every move. He lumbers my way, staring where I’m staring.
“Where did you see them last?” Oh. That’s a question that sizzles my system. He backs up a bit, feeling the heat.
That whole “retrace your steps” malarky is useless right now. I came in. I put the keys down. End of steps.
After heavy seconds of our four eyes staring at the counter, I spring into action. It’s time to look.
I start with logical places the keys could be and then move on to the crazy possibilities. My eyes ping around, imagining the passing of time as a doomsday clock.
I scan a million surfaces, a thousand crevices, floor space behind furniture. I’m a machine, a Tasmanian Devil of crazy motion.
Meanwhile, John stands mid-room, turning his head like a lighthouse beacon. I sigh and leave him to rotate. I must find those keys. Right now.
It’s as if my survival depends on dropping those books into the return slot. I’ve never wanted a rotisserie chicken more than I do at this moment. And a day without toothpaste? That’s barbaric.
By now, John has moved into the living room. He lifts magazines listlessly, pats the couch surface. I know what he’ll say next.
“They’ll turn up.”
Nope. He doesn’t understand. All of life must stop now. Neither of us should do anything but breathe and search. My future hinges on finding these keys. Without them, I may as well climb into bed and melt into the mattress.
My car key ring holds my house key, too. Without my house key, I won’t be able to lock the door behind me. Anyone could get in and take all the imagined treasures I own.
I may never be able to go anywhere again.
After a few minutes, or an hour, I see the keys. They’re in a place I can’t remember having been near, in a clump with the debit card I would probably have been searching for next.
It’s as if the air around me is infused with calming lavender. Birds chirp outside. I am okay. The crisis is over. I’ve given my blood pressure a boost, let it sink quickly, and feel the euphoria of slight dizziness.
I live to drive another day.
“Found ‘em.” I breeze past John, heading off toward a freedom I appreciate even more for having been close to losing it forever.
Have I learned my lesson? Will I place my keys carefully atop the counter when I get home? Probably not.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
