Luck in Losing

Losing things makes me crazy(er). Once I realize that something isn’t where it’s supposed to be, I start digging.

But typically I stop myself, remembering the sentence: Americans waste two weeks every year looking for misplaced items. Scary.

After reading that line 20 years ago, I became much more conscious of what I do and where I lay my belongings, especially those things that could cause me embarrassment should another person find them, such as my vibrator or Viagra. But the sentence also reminds me that the item will generally turn up soon, since it usually does.

Today I couldn’t find my pen that normally resides in my appointment book, also known as my brain, nor could I find a pair of my cheater glasses for old people. Just as well, no old people ’round here. Since I just had both items in the past day or two, I waltzed around, bending over when appropriate, looking in places I normally dance.

After shaking my head of the debris that accumulates with stress, I found my pen in my bed and, shortly thereafter, found my glasses in a basket I transport from floor to floor. I was on a roll!

What the heck, I might as well try to find the earring I lost the weekend I had a guest. Hmm, we sat on the sofa, but I had already checked under the cushions weeks ago and only found my ex-boyfriend, who I quickly put back in the freezer where he belonged.

Ahh, we sat in the chairs by the big window. I dug my skinny hands between the chair’s arms and cushion, and voilà! Money! I started giggling. First I pulled out a nickel, then a quarter, then a peanut. It was like the game I invented for my little girl called What’s in the Bag? where I’d put various things from around the house in a paper bag and have her feel the texture and shape to guess what the objects were. Sometimes she’d even guess the color, but she’s a lot brighter than I am.

So while I was prospecting and pulling out coin after coin, I kept thinking, Most guys keep their change in their right pocket, and it seemed these changelings sat in my west chair. I tipped the chair on its side when the coins started falling into its bowels, thereby increasing my chances of scoring a winner.

After that archeological dig, I headed east to the other chair and found the treasure much less bountiful but rewarding, nevertheless. I don’t believe in gambling, but risking a hangnail digging in my own chairs made me feel risqué, like a proctologist.

My earnings? $1.78, two pencils, a piñon nut, and a peanut.

I think it’s time to have company.