Lost: Two shirts, One mind
I recently lost two of my favorite shirts.
And by ‘two of my favorite shirts’ I also mean my mind.
The other day I went into my closet to grab one of my favorite white shirts: a shirt that I own in three different colors (white, black, and gray, because when it comes to clothing those are the only three colors that exist in my life) and a shirt that is so versatile that I can wear it with jeans, leggings, nice pants or a skirt — a magical shirt.
And it was gone.
Not on its hanger in the white shirt section where it lives.
Not hiding with the gray shirts and not trying unsuccessfully to blend in with the black shirts.
When was the last time I wore that shirt? I wondered.
It was at the Erma Bombeck conference a couple of weeks ago, where I also wore the black version of it (because like I said: magical).
So I looked for the black one, thinking that they were hiding together — you know, ebony and ivory living together in perfect harmony and everything.
And I discovered that the black one was missing, too.
I know I washed those shirts after the trip. I remember sniffing them to see if they needed it (because that’s what you do). I seem to remember hanging them to dry by the annoying clear loops that are attached to the shoulder seams. You know, the ones that always sneak out from under your bra-straps where you tuck them when you wear the shirt and then one day get so fed up you snip them off but regret it the next time you try to hang the shirt up and it slips off the hanger? And I have a vague recollection of hanging them somewhere that was not the usual place I hang them to dry and telling myself you’re going to forget you put them here.
Guess what, self?
You were right.
As usual.
But I’ve looked in every closet in the house.
Every hamper — multiple times (hoping my eyesight is going with my mind, I suppose).
They’re not there.
I’ve even called the Marriott in Dayton, Ohio, wondering if maybe I left them hanging in the closet (even though everything they were hanging with there is now safely back here). According to Marta at the Marriott, I didn’t.
I think she’s lying.
She probably discovered their magic and was wearing one.
And the loss of my favorite shirts isn’t the only thing that has made me question my senility lately.
The other day I was driving my daughter and her two friends home from rehearsal.
“Did you guys hear about that teenage boy who hijacked a plane from California to Hawaii?” I asked.
I went on to tell them about the boy who hid in a wheel-well of a plane and although unconscious for most of the trip, survived the freezing temperatures and lack of oxygen at 38,000 feet and was found wandering the runway, disoriented, in Maui.
The girls were rapt in their attention and quick to ask: “But what did he do to the people on the airplane? Did he hurt them?”
“What do you mean? No! He was in the wheel-well! Did any of you listen to my story?” Geez. Now even my daughter’s friends don’t listen to me, I thought.
Girls: “Uh…well, you said he ‘hijacked’ the plane…so….”
Me: “Oh! No! Not ‘hijacked’! I meant — ”
” — ”
” — ”
“Um, ‘stowed away’?” one of the friends tentatively asked.
“Yes! Stowaway! He was a stowaway! That’s what I meant!” I practically shouted.
“Uh, mom? Big difference,” said my daughter.
Smart-ass.
For the past four months I’ve had to make hotel reservations in the college town where my older daughter will soon be living for orientation, move-in, parents’ weekend, etc. I’ve wanted to stay in the cute, boutiquey hotel they have in the Memorial Union which is where we stayed last year when we visited, but have been appalled at their nightly rate. As a result I’ve booked us in other places nearby.
Last week my husband said, “It looks like we can stay at the Union in June. The rates are the same as we’re paying at that other place.”
I ran to check the website.
Entered the three nights we’d be there in June.
“Nope. Still astronomical,” I said with satisfaction that he was wrong and I was right.
“Michelle, that’s the total rate. The rate for all three nights, not the nightly rate, you idiot.” (OK, he didn’t actually say that last part, but I’m quite certain it’s what he was thinking. And if he wasn’t, I was.)
I looked closer.
Squinted a bit.
Refreshed my screen.
There it was, right before the price — “Total price” — two words that had been there in front of my face all along.
I spent the next half an hour canceling reservations, making new ones, and Googling “early signs of dementia.”
I’m beginning to get slightly concerned for my future.
Not to mention my shirts.
Because those suckers are gone.
I guess maybe I underestimated their magical powers.
OMG. Where do they go? Really? I hate when that happens, You are ok so far, at least you remember having the magical shirts. I have a vague recollection that might have been a dream, no I am sure, where the heck is it?? Although you sound much more organized than I. Just pretend you aren’t looking and you couldn’t care less. Then watch the wayward turn up! Hang tough with the college. I wish I could tell you it gets easier, well, I guess it does, I finally don’t cry anymore when I bring mine back to school, (all of 45-60 minutes away)he is completing his 3rd year.
Oh. My boy is the second. My girl graduated. That is another whole huge bag of emotions. I don’t have to attempt to describe them to you, you are already experiencing them.
I can’t even begin to imagine the emotions with the second one. Or maybe I’ll just be on a plane to Italy to cope!