LOST IN SPACE
No, I’m not talking about the television show. I’m talking about my own tendency to lose everything I touch. My husband and I laugh together about my “visio-spatial impairment”. He thinks it’s cute – thank God. I laugh because, if I didn’t, I’d cry.
It came to mind this morning because my husband temporarily misplaced his keys. Notice I say “temporarily misplaced” when he does it. When I do it, I’ve “lost” the keys. But what I notice most of all is that whenever anything is lost or “temporarily misplaced” in our household, I immediately think I’m the culprit. I race around the house frantically checking my pocket book, my jacket pockets, and my nightstand. I am sure that – if something is lost – I’ve done the losing.
This is not as crazy an idea as it may seem. I started my career as a loser at a tender age. I remember losing shoes and socks when I was barely old enough to speak. I don’t know anymore how I did it. One little white shoe would be properly placed by my bed with one sock nearby, the other would be nowhere in sight. My mother would be so exasperated. She would say things like, “Well – They don’t have legs! They must be here somewhere!” (I was too young to come up with the rejoinder, “Well, but they do have feet!”). And anyway, I felt too guilty. I knew deep down inside that it was some profound failing on my part that I could not keep track of my belongings. . Eventually, the other shoe and sock would be discovered on the downstairs landing or by the toy box in the den.
Another aspect to this losing thing was that, the more precious a possession was to me, the more likely (and the more quickly) I was apt to lose it. I remember receiving a beautiful birthstone ring from my parents on my eighth birthday. It was a tiny gold band with a tiny, tiny peridot in the middle. I was thrilled! I went over to my friend’s house across the street to show off my prize. Somehow, in the midst of showing it off and putting it back on, I lost my birthday present. Telling my parents was so painful. I don’t remember them punishing me or yelling at me. I guess they felt that losing my treasure was the most fitting punishment of all.
Later on when I was taking voice lessons from a kind but stern diva in Pittsburgh, she entrusted me with her only copy of a Mozart piece. I can still see it in my mind’s eye. It had a creamy white binding and the pages were slightly yellowed with age. There were penciled-in notes my teacher had made for herself in the corners of some of the pages. She was very clear that this was a prized possession, and she wanted it back promptly. As you must have guessed by now, I lost the blasted thing. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. I know that I was using it for practice, and that I practiced in our living room, so I’m as clueless now as I was then as to where it could have gotten to. My mother helped me to scour the house for days.
With each day that drew closer to my lesson I grew more panicked. Finally, having no choice whatsoever, my mother took me to the local music store and I bought another copy. Of course, the binding was not creamy white, but burgundy, so she would know immediately upon seeing it what had happened. My teacher sniffed and barely concealed her anger and disappointment. I was humiliated and barely got through my lesson.
Now, being older and wiser, I have developed habits, which make it harder to lose things. I have a designated zipper compartment in my purse for my keys. I have a designated holder for my driver’s license, as well as a special place for my credit card. I do not buy purses that do not have special compartments.
When I park my car in a parking lot (oh, yes – I can lose a car as easily as the car keys) I take a thirty-second break to look around and notice where I am. If there are landmarks, such as a particular store entrance, I make a mental note of that. If there is a designated level and color, I make a mental note of that. If I know that I’m in a particularly scattered mood, I might even write down the designated level and color on the back of my parking ticket. Even so, I have spent nearly an hour in a frantic effort to hunt down my car. Too many times I have been the frazzled, dazzled woman with the wild look in her eye walking up and down the endless, spiraling corridors of a multi-tiered parking lot, wishing that Security would happen by and take pity on me.
If I were anyone else, I would worry that I was developing some form of dementia. As it is, I give that possibility only the most fleeting consideration. After all, I’ve been doing this all my life.
I think the real problem is distraction. My body goes through the mundane motions of picking up, putting down, parking, walking, opening doors, closing doors, stuffing in pockets and hanging up jackets. My mind, meanwhile, is off somewhere entirely different, and while I am going through all those mundane motions, I am mulling over things like the meaning of life, the origin of the universe, and extraterrestrial beings.
In spite of my best intentions, I don’t believe I will ever completely conquer this tendency. It goes with being a dreamer. (I’ve talked to a lot of my dreamer friends, and they report a similar tendency). And since I don’t see myself changing identity any time soon, I guess I’ll just have to be content to remain as I am. Lost in space.
© 2005, Robin Munson