“Oh, I Forgot”

 

     These days I spend an inordinate amount of time doing one of my least-favorite things—looking for something. “Dang it!  Put it back where it belongs!  Then you won’t have to waste time looking for it!”  But my words fall like the seeds among the rocks and never take root.

      Most of the time, I am looking for something the Goodwife can’t find, like cell phone or glasses, and other such things.  But not always is it the Goodwife’s fault.

        I went with her to a hair appointment.  I went equipped with a warm coat, my tablet, and my reading glasses.  In these days of CORONA virus, it’s not always possible to find a seat in the salon.  If you do sit inside, you can’t always read if your face mask is fogging up your glasses.

      So, I planned on sitting in the car and reading my current book (“1984” by George Orwell, never have read it before) while I waited for her to get her hair cut.  However, we “forgot” to check her text messages.  The hairdresser had texted to ask her to reschedule her appointment because she was way behind on that particular day.

      I only had about five minutes to get comfortable and delve into my tablet before the Goodwife was back.  Caught by surprise, I didn’t do a good job of stowing things before we took off again.  I hung my reading glasses by an ear piece on the top button of my shirt, just beneath my neck.

      When we got home, since we were dressed warmly and I needed a few more steps to reach my daily goal for the break-in of my new hip, we elected to take a brief walk in the more-than-brisk air.  Arriving home again after our constitutional, I grabbed my tablet from the car and escaped into the warmth of the house.  

     I removed my overcoat and started to take off my sweater, but where were my reading glasses?  They were no longer hanging from the v-neck of my shirt.  They must have fallen off somewhere.  Or did I remove them and put them somewhere unconsciously?  It has been known to happen.

      I looked here and there.  I stepped out into the chilly garage and gave the car a thorough search, looking between seats and console, under the seats, anywhere I thought the glasses might be hiding.  Nothing.

       I put my coat back on and retraced a few of our steps on our walk.  They could have fallen off while we were walking.  But we came and went the same way.  If they had fallen off while we walked, surely we would have seen them on our return trip.  Nothing.

       With the usual silent curses and frustration that losing something always brings, I gave the glasses up for lost.  Sometime later, I took off my jeans, the waist band of which rides somewhat uncomfortably on the top of my hip surgery scar, and started to put on my fat-lady, Wal-Mart lady sweatpants that I wear nearly all day most days.

     But wait, as I stood up to hang my jeans up and grab my sweatpants, something came sliding out from beneath my shirttail.  My reading glasses were sort of born again.  I grabbed them as they slid towards my thighs and sat down to complete installing my sweatpants.

     Emotions flooded me.  Shame, for losing my temper and cursing over such a trifle.  Relief that the lost was found.  Humor, that I could have been so silly, so upset by a trifle.

       I would like to continue with my story, but I have to accompany the Goodwife to Macy’s.  Yesterday, the lady at the bank asked to see her driver’s license so she could update our record.  We looked.  We ransacked her purse.  We checked coat and sweater pockets.  No driver’s license.

       Bring it in when you find it, the lady said, thus dismissing the forgetful old fools.  At home, we searched coat pockets again, car seats, anywhere she might have left it.  This time, I was able to refrain from curses.  But frustration took up residence, soon replaced by resignation.

     I began to search the reams of bureaucratic legalese on the state driver’s license website to see how to go about replacing a lost or stolen license.  After a few minutes, I decided it might be a chore better left for tomorrow.  We set about getting supper on the table.

     As we sat at the supper table,  Macy’s called.  They have a driver’s license, if you can identify it.

     My consolation:  A trip to Macy’s is probably better than one to the driver’s license examiner’s. 

     And so it goes.